A Mistaken Sorting
by Silver Pard
Summary: Sequel to 'Mistaken Identity'. The Dunce Who Lived and his unfortunate brother have finally arrived at Hogwarts. Snape is both manipulative and placing bets. Not so oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. I suppose I own Dunce, but I'd give him away in a heartbeat.

This is all DerektheRogue's fault.

* * *

First of September. Another school year, another Sorting, another bunch of ignorant brats determined to drive him to an early grave. 

Well, perhaps not _that_ ordinary a new year. After all, the students, and even his colleagues seemed to hum with nervous energy, determined to gossip about something semi-important (and of course, not involving him). However, Snape's Potter-sense was screaming, and that could mean only one thing, what with Potter senior terrorising the Ministry: it was something about their precious Dunce Who Lived. Maybe the little idiot had got lost in Diagon Alley. Again. It had been Snape's fondest wish ever since the boy six years old and had escaped the Potters' 'watchful' care to wreck his potions laboratory to introduce the boy to the wonders of Knockturn, and see how much he could sell a wizarding hero's organs for.

Snape began to drum his fingers irritably on the table – where the hell was that blasted hat? – and indulged in his favourite pre-Sorting pastime of seeing how many students he recognised as coming from families he traditionally liked to belittle/hex and which house they'd eventually shame.

Ugh. Longbottom. And a Hufflepuff if ever he saw one.

Muggleborn, that one. Ravenclaw, if the rapid recitation of spell incantations meant anything.

Ah, there was Draco, looking even more like his father. Snape wondered (and not for the first time) if the Malfoys had simply done away with normal reproduction processes back in the fourteenth century and simply cloned themselves.

Oh Merlin, _another_ Weasley! No need to ask where that one would go.

Potter. Gryffindor.

Bones, Huffle- wait. Potter?

Yes, he realised, eyes flicking back to redhead. The Dunce Who Lived was at Hogwarts. Pity he hadn't been found to be a squib. Snape would've paid good galleons to see that. Regardless, the knowledge was important only for what it meant by proxy: that Harry Potter would be here too.

There. Black-haired and pale, and even more serious than the last time Snape had seen him, which had been aged eight, chatting with the snake in Salazar's portrait down in the dungeons (and hadn't that particular sight nearly given Snape a heart attack?) while his brother did a creditable imitation of performing dog for his fellow teachers. Dunce – Snape never had discovered his actual name, not that he'd use it even if he did – was talking loudly, and from the looks of it, boastfully, while Harry studied the ceiling with the intense fascination of someone bored out of their skull.

"What do you think, Severus?" A voice enquired to his left. "Twenty-five galleons he goes to Minerva's house."

"Pomona. You are aware gambling would set a detrimental example for the children?"

She raised an eyebrow expectantly. He sighed. "If you're talking about the Dunce Who Lived, then fifty says Hufflepuff."

"Really, Severus, you shouldn't talk about students that way! Fifty, my house," she murmured, carefully jotting it down. "And his brother?"

Snape smiled (judging from the fearful expression of Mr. Longbottom, handing that Hat back, it was a most terrifying sight). "Slytherin," he said firmly.

"Be serious!" protested Sprout. "A Potter in Slytherin! It's never happened!"

"Well then," Snape said silkily, "he'll just have to break a few trends. "After all, he is the one being Sorted, not his family." He gave her his most infamous Evil Smile of Certain Impending Doom. "I'm prepared to put two hundred and fifty on it."

There was a low whistle from Sinistra, and an awed hum across the table.

"Done!" Hooch said sharply, to be quickly echoed by the others. Snape smiled grimly. Not only would he have the real Boy Who Lived under his influence by the end of the feast, he'd also make money from it. Things just got better and better. He could even ignore that blasted nervous tic of Quirrel's – honestly, if he hadn't wanted to be terrified out of his wits, the man should have chosen to sit further away from a Potions Master who wants the Defence job. You had to wonder why _any_ of the myriad defence teachers would ever sit next to him, given his well-known coveting of their job and his immense talent with poisons.

The sudden explosion from the Gryffindor table indicated Snape had lost fifty galleons with the Dunce Who Lived's Sorting. That, or the Weasley twins were starting early this year.

"Potter, Harry!"

Snape's head jerked up, fixing the pale, dark-haired boy he stepped up with a gaze intense enough to put a basilisk with toothache to shame. Here it was, the moment Snape had been waiting for (though any who dared suggest such thing out loud would have to learn very quickly to be as paranoid as Moody over drinks).

He waited in tense, nervous anticipation of the Sorting Hat's decision. Of course, he was _almost_ certain of where Harry would go, but the Hat, being able to see one's innermost characteristics had a slight edge over him, even with Legilimency. Still it was a _must_ that the boy went to Slytherin: Gryffindor would be watching Dunce like a hawk, flaunting his mediocre skills. Hufflepuff – well there was never a chance of him going to Hufflepuff, Snape hoped. Ravenclaw put far too much emphasis on books and grades, none of which were of vital importance when you needed to learn how to kill a Dark Lord. But Slytherin emphasised cunning, caution and a certain disregard for rules when it suited them, all qualities Potter would need, not only to survive the school year, but also to survive random Dark Lord attacks.

And so he continued waiting patiently. Snape gave another glance at his watch. It had been five minutes and the Hat had yet to call out a house. How long could it possibly take for the Sorting Hat to realise something Snape had known since the boy was a year old?

After half an hour, he was seriously deliberating wrenching the Hat off Harry's head, bellowing 'Slytherin!' and dragging him to the table decked out in green and silver.

The other students, who fifteen minutes earlier had begun inquiring if maybe Potter was a squib (and had been superbly reprimanded and disabused of this notion by the Sorting Hat) had begun to occupy themselves however they could – the Ravenclaws began crosswords and hangman, the Hufflepuffs looked at their plates with woeful expressions. Snape amused himself by scowling ferociously at the still-unsorted students, thereby preventing them from sitting down on the stone floor of the Great Hall for fear of his ire. It was a petty, malicious pleasure, and no doubt he'd pay dearly for it in the classroom, but it was most amusing to watch them squirm, pull themselves upright on shaking legs as he glanced at them, sway idiotically and squeak with dismay when he caught one of them near fainting.

No wonder his students spent the next seven years of their schooling devoting themselves to making him miserable rather than learning.

The Gryffindors were suspiciously quiet. Snape's seventh sense – the more general Gryffindor trouble-making one – twitched into life, blaring, as it did only when Weasleys were near. At some unseen signal, the red and gold table burst raucously into song, giving their own mediocre sorting song bawling the 'virtues' of idiocy and thoughtlessness while simultaneously managing to slander their mortal enemies (and duels between Gryffindors and Slytherins were quite often mortal, let alone when they were being provoked in such manner as they were now). Snape closed his eyes with an expression of long-suffering martyrdom as he prepared for the fallout.

As the last out-of-tune note faded away, the Slytherins stood as one and began to sing with saccharine sweet and mocking voices their own version, beginning ominously with the line 'Slytherins are sexier' and somehow managing to insult every house in the hall by applying their less-desirable Sorting characteristics to their qualities regarding relationships.

The entire hall was silenced with equal parts amusement and horror.

Snape sighed. For all his dedicated years as head of house (perhaps not as many as Minerva, but still. He was giving the best years of his life to those brats), he'd never managed to impress upon his students the importance of never lowering themselves to the level of Gryffindors.

The Hat's 'brow' seemed to wrinkle in deep thought. Very deep thought, as the Hat broke Sorting etiquette as old as Hogwarts, by beginning to mutter out loud.

"Kids these days, think they know their own heads..."

Inaudible muttering from the poor unfortunate. Snape brightened. Now _this_ was interesting.

"I don't care what your father thinks about it, it's-"

Mutter. Actually, more of a pleading.

"Rubbish," the Hat snapped, loud enough now for the entire Hall to hear. "Slytherin is a perfectly respectable house... sometimes."

Snape smirked, cheered immensely. Now, no matter if the Hat made a travesty of a judgement and sorted him into Gryffindor, he'd never be accepted there. Among the teachers, a brief, but unimaginably fierce debate that made Dumbledore vs. Grindelwald look a toddler's spat broke out. Snape took advantage of the situation to not only add another hundred galleons to his bet, despite a disapproving look from Minerva, who signalled Pomona to add another fifty to hers, but also perform a hastily muttered _silencio_ when it looked like Minerva was going to remind the Hat that it was not supposed to argue out loud.

"Yes, plenty of courage... I did say that, didn't I? ...tempered by a _Slytherin_ survival instinct. No Gryffindor has a survival instinct worth a damn."

Snape snickered, but hastily converted it into a hacking cough when Minerva gave a glare that promised vengeance. Painful, humiliating vengeance. Really, Snape noted, it was quite fascinating how thin Minerva's lips could go.

"Hufflepuff! Helga'd roll over in her grave if I put you there! Honestly, what's so bad about snakes? You've even got Salazar's talent with the little beasts."

There was a sudden silence throughout the Hall, which had been muttering the moment Harry's Sorting started (firstly, the Boy Who Lived's brother! Second, what's taking so long? I'm hungry! and third, Slytherin! No way!).

It was also amazing how an inanimate object could convey such frustration. "It's NOT an evil gift. It's a matter of genetics!"

This little titbit finally provoked the boy enough to yell back, startled, "I am _not_ related to Voldemort!" (Screams ensued from the peanut gallery. Snape rolled his eyes, conveniently forgoing to recall his own terror of He Who Loves To Crucio).

"Did I say you were?" The Hat scowled (not that Harry could see it, it being perched on his head).

"You said-"

"Genetics. Who knows, perhaps Ms. Evans was not muggleborn after all, and is from a line of Slytherin squibs."

The boy snorted. "Squibs? In the noble line of Slytherin? They'd have been smothered the moment it was realised."

Snape was, by now, almost rubbing his hands with glee (almost, but such hopelessly trite actions were beneath him). Being well-versed in the art of sarcasm, he understood that the boy was dismissing the theory. The rest of the Hall, having only small portions of wit, thought he was supporting the Pureblood way, which only made him more enemies in the other houses.

The Hat continued to yell at Harry, and Snape was reasonably certain that if it wasn't a hat, it would be crying tears of frustration. Snape checked 'stubborn belief he knows best and can never be wrong' off his mental checklist for Slytherin qualities. Fine, it also shared the column with Gryffindor, but close enough.

"Merlin's sake boy, I've done millions of these things, and I've never seen a head more Slytherin than yours, excluding Salazar himself. Oh, and Mr. Riddle, of course." Naturally, this set the rest of the students and most of the teachers into a fury of whispering inquiring who the hell 'Mr. Riddle' was (Dumbledore was far from forthcoming with useful information – even something so little as Vold- the Dark Lord's former name)

"I'm nothing like that hypocritical murdering bas-"

"Language, Mr. Potter. And it's my solemn duty to tell you, having seen both your minds that you are. Besides, Slytherin is not really about 'pure blood', you know. It's actually all about cunning and ambition. And if you don't have those traits, I'm a tap-dancing flamingo."

There was a long, tense silence. Finally the tear in the brim opened wide and with ecstatic cheerfulness announced "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry Potter removed the Sorting Hat from his head and was faced with another first in Sorting history - total, utter, accusing silence.

Snape smirked cheerfully and began to applaud. Evidently, his regular little chats with Sorting Hat had paid off.

* * *

A/N: As previously mentioned, dedicated to DerektheRogue, who not only got the ball rolling, but provided a veritable mine of humorous situations, resulting in several different versions of Harry's Sorting, this being the fourth. 

There are no planned sequels to follow this; hence it has been posted as a second oneshot, rather than as a second chapter. Although, seeing as this wasn't planned in the first place, that might change.

Lastly, the song the Slytherins traumatise the rest of the Great Hall with is 'Slytherins Are Sexier', by morrigan, to whom I meant no disrespect, only homage, in taking the first line.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See previous chapter. Oneshot. Thing.

I could have decided to simply string all of these together, making this chapter three of Mistaken Identity, but I'm quite lazy, a fact you should already have gathered from the length of chapters and disparity in dates between publishing and update. That, and there are a great variety of clichés that could have occurred between MI and the beginning of Harry's magical education, and there is always the option that I may one day decide to do something stupid like follow up on those opportunities.

* * *

Snape had been preparing for the Dunce Who Lived's arrival at Hogwarts ever since that fateful Halloween night he'd realised there were only two other people who knew Harry Potter was the true defeater of Voldemort, and that one of them was a sentient hat, and the other a flaming chicken. 

Quite aside from hating the Dunce Who Lived on principle as the spawn of James Potter, Snape had anticipated that the blatant favouritism demonstrated by the woefully misled parents would in the interim craft Dunce into a child truly worthy of his derision, even were he not genetically related to Potter. He'd been proven right.

Naturally, he was under orders from Dumbledore to _protect_ the loathsome worm, but, Snape reasoned, he already had one Potter under his wing – the _better_ Potter, Merlin forgive him for putting two such words together – and besides, Dumbledore never said anything about making him miserable.

Snape, it can safely be assumed, despised children. Most teachers do, but Snape had elevated it to a state well beyond normal boundaries. With his rather _unique_ training in certain areas of magic and absolutely nil instruction in the area of teaching, Snape was to education what Voldemort was to life insurance. It had been eight years since the last official complaint against him, which said much for his campaign of intimidation.

His plan of torture got off to a flying start. He'd bribed Peeves with several explosive and luridly coloured potions to disorientate Dunce and Dumber (otherwise known as Ron Weasley, or sometimes, Ronniekins) so badly they tried to break into the Third Floor corridor to get away.

All it took was a few careful hints to Filch, and he watched with his most unpleasant smile as they were threatened with some classic punishments he rather regretted had been done away with quite a while ago. Filch had just reached some of the more… interesting methods of interrogation when Quirrel passed by and earned Snape's undying enmity by saving them.

And this was only the first few hours. He had seven long, long years to implement all the fine arts of torture he'd perfected.

His cheerful mood was ruined by breakfast – he arrived in time to witness Harry Potter bring yet _another_ first to Hogwarts halls: a Howler, on his very first day, before he even got his timetable.

As he listened to James Potter's magnified voice berate his son for the terrible crime of being Sorted into the right house for him – he didn't know whether to be pleased for Harry that his father remembered he was alive or insulted on behalf of his student and house – he decided that perhaps he could find just that little more contempt for Dunce that would enable him to use his more sinister ideas without receiving a visit from his estranged conscience. It would however, still take until his first lesson with Dunce on Friday before he could initiate Dunce into what the rest of his school years would be – persecution of the highest quality available in schools.

Until then – Snape smirked darkly as he swept past Dunce in the entrance hall with a silent incantation of _levicorpus_ – he could always hire Peeves.

* * *

Friday dawned. Snape waited calmly in his dungeons, watching his Slytherins – having been warned by older students that he expected the best of his students, the better to show up the Gryffindors, they were early. Potter – his Potter – he was pleased to note, was flicking through _Magical Drafts and Potions_ carefully. He, like the other Slytherin first years, had been informed of Snape's customary Gryffindor baiting pop quiz, but seemed to doubt the snake on his robes was enough to counteract Snape's legendary hatred of the Potter name. Very wise of him. Snape found himself nodding approvingly, before fixing a scowl on his face and waited for Dunce to be late (again, Peeves, the promise of a new batch of experimental dung bombs, and careful orders to the Bloody Baron to keep away other ghosts who might help them had provided good results). 

As they burst into the room gasping – he later heard from Peeves they had been chased all over the fourth floor, a fact he verified by the portraits before adding several ink bottles to his standard bag of dung bombs – he began at once, taking points for lateness.

First blood drawn, he continued with the standard spiel he gave all Slytherin-Gryffindor first year classes, watching Dunce carefully out of the corner of his eye. "Potter," he snapped as soon as the redhead exchanged dire looks with Weasley, and scowled in further annoyance when both looked at him sharply. "This is going to become supremely irritating, isn't it?" He turned and glared accusingly at the black-haired Potter under his care, as if it were a personal insult he happened to be a twin. "Why couldn't you have had the decency to strangle him–" an irritable jerk of the head toward the Gryffindor side of the room was sufficient to inform all present of the 'him' being referred to, "with his own umbilical cord in the womb?"

"Who would you take your vitriol out on then, sir?" Potter – Harry, no, Potter… goddamn the quirk of biology that had resulted in Lily bearing fraternal twins, and especially for bearing them _both_ to term! – inquired in as respectful a tone as could be managed when subtly insulting your teacher.

The entire class held its breath. It was an unspoken rule that you never mentioned Snape's hatred of Potters, Weasleys, Gryffindors… generally, anyone not of Slytherin. Snape stared, and smiled slowly (it would be petty to find pleasure in the whimper this elicited from Neville Longbottom. But then, Snape had often been accused of being petty). Yes, there was definitely potential here. "Hmm. Gryffindor Potter will henceforth be addressed to as the Dunce Who Lived–" cue sycophantic sniggering from the Slytherin half of the dungeon, and to hell with professional integrity, this was _war_, "and you will have the dubious pleasure of being simply 'Potter'. Unless of course, it is blatantly obvious which of you is on the receiving end of my ire. Is this acceptable?"

He waited a moment for one of the self-preservation-challenged to mutter the inevitable, '_as if we're going to argue with you_.'

"Detention, Weasley." He said silkily, gliding back into the half of the dungeon he'd spelled to be five degrees cooler than the rest every time he had a class with the lions. "So, can fame make up for deficiencies of nature? Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Dunce reddened – Snape felt the brief urge to see if crushing him would result in tomato sauce and quashed it ruthlessly as going against Dumbledore's unspoken limitations upon his reign of terror. It seemed his humiliation threshold was lower than anticipated if he was already turning red – a few more questions and he would be unable to protest at the unfairness, and then points could be legitimately taken for backchat. "I don't know, sir." He said sullenly. Snape smirked. While Dunce might resemble Lily most, none of her intelligence, particularly her talent with potions, seemed to have been passed on. Good. He need only endure five years then.

"Where would I look for a bezoar?"

The expression on Dunce's screwed up face was almost painful. Thinking, it seemed, was terribly hard work. "I don't know, sir." He repeated, each word slightly stressed, as if Snape should pay attention to what was being said.

"What is the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?"

"I don't know! Okay? _Satisfied_?"

"Five points from Gryffindor for the terrible combination of idiocy and cheek, Potter." A pause as a thought occurred to him. "You _have_ been taught to read, I hope?" He wouldn't put it past Potter to avoid teaching his son basic literacy skills by claiming his perfect, Dark Lord-vanquishing son didn't need to spend time on such mundane occupations.

"Of course!" Dunce snapped, looking for all the world as if he were insulted. Fancy that.

"Really? Then why have you not read your course books? The answers are there, I assure you." Snape knew just enough about siblings and the possible detrimental effect that favouring one over the other could have on the favoured child's lifespan and quality of life, and so tactfully didn't mention Harry had probably read his course books back to front by now – the potions ones, at least, given the warning older students had given him. He did want the child to live, and be fairly _happy_ living at Hogwarts – or as happy as a Potter in Slytherin with still-living Gryffindor parents could be in any case – otherwise Snape could expect his own life expectancy to match something akin to a mayfly's. He sighed. "For your information, Potter, though hopefully not for the rest of your unfortunate classmates, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death." If only House Elves weren't completely immune to bribery, he would have loved to see what would happen if he managed to feed that to Dunce. "A bezoar is a stone from the stomach of a goat that will save you from most poisons–" …oh, dear god, he'd just given him the means to avoid a painful death of mostly untraceable means "– and there is no difference between wolfsbane and monkshood, seeing as they are the same plant, also known as aconite."

The class did not improve, although he was pleased to see Harry was proficient in potions, perhaps even as gifted as Lily.

By the time Longbottom managed to somehow melt his cauldron, a feat Snape had thought beyond even him, Snape himself was near melting point. Having the Dunce Who Lived in his class was fast becoming an endurance test he wasn't sure he had the inner resources of spite to retaliate upon. Just how was it possible without violating all laws of magic and nature known to man for a being even more annoying than both Weasley twins put together to exist? And to manage to be so annoying while ostensibly doing nothing wrong? It was unfathomable, simply unfathomable.

Taking points alleviated the irritation a little, and sending Potter to escort Longbottom to the Hospital Wing _did_ at least get him out of sight (he sincerely doubted the latter would return this period, whatever Madam Pomfrey might say, and if Potter wanted to live to see the end of his first week, he'd take note of Longbottom's evasion). Poor Longbottom. If only the Sorting Hat had gone with its first instinct and put him in Hufflepuff where he so clearly belonged, Snape wouldn't have to despise him on principle – as a Gryffindor of terrifying ineptitude it was expected of him to systematically decimate Longbottom's confidence potions lesson by potions lesson.

If Longbottom had been a Hufflepuff, the much vaunted loyalty of the House would have successfully buoyed him enough to perhaps clue him in to the fact that Herbology was closely related to the art of potion-making, and furthermore allow Snape to be a little more flexible on the matter of his pitiful class work. After all, he had nothing against Hufflepuffs – hard work was a virtue applicable to all areas, whereas bravery was about as relevant to schoolwork as live manticores were to health care.

But as things stood… Merlin's fluffy white beard, Longbottom, a Weasley and the Dunce, all in one class? It was going to be a _miracle_ if he survived the next five years with sanity intact. He was probably going to end up rejoining the Dark Lord in a fit of madness. Or worse, agreeing to spy on him again.

"Potter," he said calmly at the end of the class, "Stay a moment."

Probably entertaining vague ideas of detention, disembowelment or other forms of persecution that would certainly have been his were he his brother, the boy stopped.

It occurred to Snape as he stared into the carefully blank green eyes of Lily's son that all his years as a teacher and spy had hardly prepared him to connect with, train, mentor or otherwise enhance the survival options of the saviour of the wizarding world. These occupations had in fact made him so bitter it was a source of ongoing friendly contention between Pomona and the normally intelligent Filius as to whether he really could curdle milk just by looking at it. Don't think he hadn't noticed them trying to subtly shift pitchers of the white stuff into his line of vision at breakfast each morning.

"I trust, Potter, you have been comfortable in Slytherin? Or as close an approximation as is possible, given your circumstances?"

Harry Potter was a remarkably bitter little boy, if that twist of the mouth was indicative of anything. "Circumstances? Do you mean having Gryffindor parents, one of whom is muggleborn? Or being related to the Boy Who Lived?"

Snape decided, Slytherin instincts be damned, to be honest. "I was actually hoping to lead around to the issue of your brother not, in fact, being the Boy Who Lived, but we can continue with this amusing, if inconsequential line of thought if you desire."

Harry stared for a long moment. Then Snape was the recipient of a smile so cold it could have kept ice cream from melting in a blast furnace. Something in Snape recognised it and started kissing robe hem. He crushed the urge viciously and smirked back.

This was going to be more interesting then he'd anticipated. He might even end up _liking_ the boy, instead of the mixture of resentment and constant exasperation he originally anticipated would be the result of his decision.

He surveyed his new pet project for a long moment. Was he prepared to be teacher, mentor, protector, friend (he was hoping this was avoidable, but if he wanted the boy to trust him it might become necessary) and – damn James Potter for not being capable of fulfilling this vital role in the first place – parent to this boy?

If it drove James Potter to drink/death/damnation/ruination of life and sanity?

Hell yes.


	3. Chapter 3

Snape had quickly learned, to his utter horror, that he did in fact like Harry Potter. He'd been able to ignore this gleaning of self-knowledge throughout the weekend and most of the second week, but halfway through their conversation following the disastrous first flying lesson Harry had just participated in he found himself wondering just what the hell was wrong with the boy's parents and distinctly unsatisfied with the thought that they had no idea just what an extraordinary son they had or how lucky they were to have him. He ended the conversation a short while later to teach his next class – third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws – and effectively rediscover why he hated children.

This piece of terrifying self-realisation was nothing, however, to the outrage he felt when he entered the staff room later to learn at last the reason Minerva had looked so unaccountably smug during dinner.

"You can _not_ be serious!"

Minerva's glare in response to this exclamation of horror was withering, but Snape was enraged enough to be completely oblivious, a feat as yet unmatched in the annals of Hogwarts history.

"You're telling me, Minerva, that the Dunce Who Lived –" he artfully ignored the disapproving looks from his colleagues. "Breaks rules set down for his own safety, and not only is he not reprimanded, but is given a place of the Gryffindor Quidditch team?!"

"The boy's a natural, Severus." McGonagall said firmly, as if that adequately explained her lapse of intellect.

"His talent with a broom is completely inconsequential! He should not be _rewarded_ for such acts of stupidity!" he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can you say 'favouritism', Minerva?" He sneered at her (after all, he rarely got the chance to say that to someone else). The thought suddenly occurred that this had to be extremely galling to Harry (of course Snape realised he was probably the only person who'd ever paid attention to the fact that the boy even liked to fly, but this didn't mean Harry was any less gifted, whether it was realised or not), and that he worried about that at all only exacerbated his feelings of indignation. "Is this about him being the Boy Who Lived? Or are you just desperate not to let the Cup go to Slytherin again?"

Minerva stiffened, outraged. The staff room held its collective breath, waiting for the impending outburst. To the surprise of all, she calmed herself, and exchanged sympathetic glances with Madam Hooch. "I think," she confided in an undertone meant to be heard, "That perhaps Severus is being uncomfortably reminded of his own school days when James--"

"This is – NOT – about – James – Potter!" He bellowed, instantly negating his own words. He took a deep, _almost_ calming breath. "This about the fact that a boy with no more brains than god gave flobberworms is being allowed on the school team when he _should_ be receiving a detention!"

McGonagall – she was never 'Minerva' when displeased with him, he was likely to live longer – looked insulted by the insinuation that one of her students had a mental capacity equivalent to a flobberworm. He couldn't understand why; she had Weasleys in her House.

"Severus," Flitwick squeaked, making a dismal and half-hearted attempt to keep the peace. "Don't blame Minerva. You know we've all got a bit of a blind spot where he's concerned; Boy Who Lived and all-"

"Speak for yourself," he snarled, before turning back to Minerva. "So this _is_ about him being the Boy Who Lived, not talent."

"He has talent, Severus."

"So does his brother, but I don't see him getting a spot on his house team as a first year. And talent or no, the brat has _still_ broken the rules. Even if he hadn't disobeyed Madam Hooch's direct orders, it would still be unfair of you to put him on the school team. He is a first year, don't we have rules against this sort of thing?"

Two spots of red colour had appeared high on her cheeks. A bad sign. A very bad sign. "You're a fine one to talk about unfairness, Severus!"

The other teachers rapidly began exiting the room, having accepted that the entertainment value provided was finally being outweighed by the risks to life and limb.

Two hours later, and Snape could be found torturing Hufflepuff first years in the halls, having been unable to convince Minerva either of the stupidity of her actions or in the wisdom of treating the Potter twins equal and allowing both to join the relevant House teams (he'd made the terrible mistake of going to Dumbledore for justice, and was still rueing the decision bitterly). McGonagall could be found lecturing the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team with a maniacal glint in her eye that she expected the Quidditch Cup, and if she didn't receive results she'd personally see to it none of them ever graduated.

"Draco," Snape declared as he entered the Common Room (all his other students being smart enough to run for it the moment the lookout had given the warning signal), "As your godfather I am honour bound to care for and love you dearly, but I may never forgive you for this."

* * *

"You _do_ know that Malfoy has challenged my brother to a midnight duel in the trophy room tonight?" Harry asked, with an amazing display of indifference as Snape watched him brew a perfect Swelling Solution. 

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I'll inform Filch," he said dryly. "Why, would it concern you were your brother to die or be hideously injured?" He snorted under his breath, easily swiping the ingredient Harry had been about to add a little too soon. "If only that were an option in a duel between _first years_. If only."

Harry surveyed him for a moment with a gaze so piercing Snape was confused for a moment over which one of them knew Legilimency. Speaking of which, he would have to teach Potter Occlumency eventually. He had a terrible feeling about that magical curse scar. "No." he shrugged. "I thought you might be worried about your godson."

Snape felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. "Who told you that Draco was my godson?"

No answer was forthcoming. Snape did not expect one. "Draco needs to be taught a little discretion." He said irritably. "Lucius has been a terrible example to him. It's going to take all his school years to drive out his example, and as soon as he graduates Draco will forget about being Draco and become a clone again."

The black-haired boy looked up, amused. "So it _is_ true the Malfoy line is the product of perfecting the cloning technique."

Snape scowled at him, a little too slow to prevent the boy's sharp eyes from noticing his own amusement at that pronouncement. "Get back to brewing your potion," he snapped. "And then we'll see if there's enough time to go over what Quirrel should be teaching you before I have to make your brother's life a misery."

"I would have thought that would be a pleasure rather than a chore," he grinned. Snape was starting to forget his own resolution to dislike him.

"I fully agree with Filch when it pertains to your brother," he said coolly. "Dunce Who Lived or no–"

"Especially 'no'." Harry muttered.

"–he should be strung upside down by his ankles in a flooded dungeon."

There was a comfortable silence for a while as both returned to their respective tasks. Snape resisted the urge to incinerate several truly abysmal essays, and Harry moved on to the last stages of his potion.

"Just out of curiosity, Professor, do you even know my brother's first name?"

Snape grimaced. "Why would I want to? Besides, do you?"

"Touché. But that's alright, nobody in my family knows my name either." There was a moment of absolute disassociation. Snape felt he could probably have been stabbed in the head with an ice pick right in front of him and Harry wouldn't have noticed, let alone cared. _Potters_, he thought.

Which effectively reminded him that Draco needed a lesson about issuing duels and Filch had to be told the trophy room was in terrible danger of magic sparks. Perhaps he should modify the after-hours patrolling roster just in case. Heaven forbid it should Pomona who found Gryffindors out of bed, they'd never get the detention they deserved. "I'll trust you just enough to finish that without any major mishaps while I'm gone," he said calmly, already seeing Dunce and Dumber disembowelling horned toads in his mind's eye.

Potter had the temerity to smirk at him as he swept out, intent on informing Filch of Dunce Who Lived's plans for late night entertainment.

* * *

A/N: _Anna Potter-Snape_. I blame you for this, and all possible future chapters! That aside, I'm wondering if I should perhaps have followed your model for the Mistaken series; it would appear to make less work. 

In a future chapter (no, don't ask when):

_Watching Longbottom, staring with obvious terror at the vile contents of the cauldron he was supposed to be cleaning, Snape could see it already. Sooner or later, this boy, capable of blowing up even a swelling solution, was going to kill everyone in the class._


	4. Chapter 4

"The idiot," Snape informed Harry cheerfully as he entered the Common Room the next morning.

Harry looked up, feigning boredom. "What happened?"

Snape eyed him a moment, calculating. All the teachers knew to some extent, whether conscious of it or not, that the protections around the Stone were more for testing Dunce than actual protection.

_Please_. As if there was anything there that would stop the Dark Lord… except the Mirror Snape hadn't dared look into. The Mirror, Snape suspected, was the only thing truly protecting the Stone, and the only thing necessary. _But_, they were asking proof of worthiness from the wrong Potter, and, while he _was_ malignant, Snape didn't want to be indirectly responsible for a child's death. That could make life difficult. So. Hints.

"He and Weasley ran into one of Hagrid's more exotic pets," he purred. "You could hear the screaming from the dungeons."

A tiny smile flickered over the boy's face. "The Cerberus," Harry acknowledged.

Snape eyed him askance and decided it would probably be best if he didn't ask. "Yes. Called 'Fluffy', if you can believe it. Now, remember what we discussed yesterday in our conversation about Defence Against the Dark Arts. What is the typical function of a Cerberus?"

"Guard dog," he responded promptly. His eyes narrowed. "What is it guarding?"

Hagrid was going to let slip about Flamel, Dumbledore was counting on it. His student deserved no less, and would probably get the answer long before Dunce. "Something for Nicholas Flamel," he said edgily, concealing a smile.

He watched snatches of information being gathered, discarded, replaced, snapped into place. "The Philosopher's Stone."

Snape revised his original thought. He was not just pleased with Harry Potter's acumen. He might just indulge in the Gryffindor vice of pride.

"Very good," he said approvingly, nodding, leaving the room before he indulged and gave all the answers. Just because Potter's survival was necessary to Snape's freedom (and the continued existence of the wizarding world, mustn't forget that) didn't mean Snape was going to give him all the answers. What good would it do to cosset him when in the end he'd have to face the Dark Lord on his own merits anyway?

At the end of the day, despite fifth year Hufflepuffs somehow managing to create semi-aware vomit-monsters, the inconvenience of having to remove a Gryffindor sixth year from the ceiling, and the general all-round irritation and paranoia that accompanied having to oversee detentions involving Fred and George Weasley, he concluded he was actually doing something meaningful with his time. Most important of all, the likelihood of him being killed while doing so was negligible, and as such put mentoring Harry Potter far above work done during his time as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix.

James Potter would roll in his grave. Just as soon as Snape put him in it.

* * *

Time passed. Snape kept waiting patiently for whoever was after the Stone to take a chance, and was continually disappointed. He was beginning to suspect the reason why Albus had put him on permanent Stone-watch. 

He contemplated informing him that even snakes had limited patience, but decided on reflection that he really was the only one for the job, having enough sense to remain suspicious despite the Dark Lord's apparent defeat. And in any case, he'd already visited Albus once this year; he couldn't take another pointless argument with the sugar-doped wizard just yet.

Speaking of sugar…

"Weasley! Sugar mice are not for dropping down Miss Bell's back! Five points from Gryffindor."

He could feel the glares being aimed at his back. Hmph. Was it _his_ fault if the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were unfortunate enough to be in the place of Potter-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him?

Of course not. "It'll be ten points if you even _think_ of lighting that firework, Weasley," he added without turning around, striding back to the front where he could best glower impressively and see all dangers. He had yet to be successful in his petitions to separate the Weasley twins from his Potions classes, and until such a time as Twin Mk. I spent his lessons in the Forest and the other in the dungeons (anything less being foolishly lenient), his paranoia insisted upon the best vantage point.

A _Nimbus Two Thousand_. Received at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, for Merlin's sake. Might as well have put up posters declaring the new Gryffindor Seeker.

There were many days when Snape would dearly love to use the Cruciatus Curse on James Potter and/or his brainless offspring. Far more rare were the days when he merely wished to teach them the value of antidotes.

_Using the Cruciatus Curse on James Potter will solve nothing_, the more sensible portion of his mind pointed out calmly. Since it had ceased to be a matter of life and death to listen to it however, Snape no longer paid any attention. He took the time to flick through his old Potions textbooks in the hope that sometime since he'd last seen it a recipe for an utterly untraceable and exquisitely virulent poison had somehow turned up. Why, oh _why_ had he stopped researching it since the Dark Lord's fall?

… he might even enlist Harry in this project. He had sneaking suspicion the boy would be very pleased to research a nasty demise for his brother. Or perhaps Snape was applying his own sentiments to Harry's view of his brother. Perhaps Harry Potter was a better person, who didn't wish his moronic, attention stealing and undeserving twin any harm at all.

Psht. And Snape would win Teacher of the Year.

* * *

By the time Halloween arrived, Snape had driven a class of third year Ravenclaws to nervous breakdown by overloading them with fifth year material, had Longbottom in detention so often he was beginning to lose the will to live, lost a bet against Minerva over who could cause Quirrel to faint first (he still maintained that her usage of her animagus form to jump on his head from a closet was childishly simple and definitely cheating) and booked so many Quidditch practise sessions that there had been an official complaint. There had still been no attempt on the Stone. His paranoia insisted that this meant nothing good, despite common perception that 'no threat' actually means 'no threat'. 

So he was grimly pleased when Quirrel ran into the Great Hall as if he'd seen the hags doing the can-can, screaming about trolls before fainting. Hm. A quick glance to either side revealed that he was clearly the only faculty member who remembered that one of Quirrel's qualifications was his ability to converse in fluent Troll. Consequently, while the rest of the staff herded the children to safety, he remembered what prefects were for and delegated responsibility to chase after Quirrel.

Which led to his current state of affairs: standing the wrong side of the third floor corridor door, with Quirrel having successfully given him the slip (he was _not_ going to mention that in his report to Albus, _that_ was for sure. Successfully eluded by turbaned, stuttering idiot). And just what was Albus not-thinking, with the third floor corridor accessible with a mere _alohomora_? Any bloody first year could get in and be torn to pieces.

Not that he minded such an occurrence, of course, but the paperwork would be immense.

There was a low growl from behind him. Snape gave in to cliché and turned around very slowly.

He froze. Fluffy's second head eyeballed him (the third head was sleeping and the first was preoccupied looking for giant fleas).

Three-headed dog. _Irritable_ three-headed dog.

Well, there could only be one response to that.

Snape imitated a bat out of hell even more successfully than his students gave him credit for and for the first time in his life cursed his penchant for billowing robes. Fluffy decided it hadn't had nearly enough fun for years, or at least, for the time it had spent guarding the trapdoor, and gave chase, barking frantically. No doubt Hagrid would claim he just wanted to play fetch or some such game, but Snape was the one doing the running and he strenuously objected to being mistaken for a moving chew toy.

By the time he stumbled back out into the corridor, he was liberally spattered with Cerberus drool and his left leg could give a piece of mince a run for first prize at a county fair. He was going to hex Hagrid so hard his beard fell out. He was going to feed him piece by piece to his beloved homicidal dog. And Quirrel. He was going to strangle Quirrel with his bloody turban. He was going to use him for potions ingredients. He was going introduce him to the Giant Squid – the poor thing had been celibate since the Dark Ages.

In Hogwarts, everything up to and including maiming and attempted murder was possible and permitted, provided it appeared to be an accident. Magic was a dangerous business, after all. Snape had absolutely no qualms about planning the death of a fellow teacher. If nothing else, it passed the time.

_He was going to bloody well kill them all._

He grimaced. Just as soon as he cleaned off the drool and made sure he wasn't going to bleed to death in the corridor. It might be the preferable option if the Dark Lord ever returned, but Snape was determined to leave suicide to the last possible minute even so.

"Must remind Dumbledore to lock the door properly," Snape muttered, staring at his mangled leg. "Somebody could really get hurt. And if I wanted to be in constant pain I'd still be a Death Eater. I don't get paid enough for this."

He staggered upright and limped in the direction of the faint screams somewhere below (above? Which way was 'up' again?) him, knowing instinctively that he'd find at least one of the Potter brats at the bottom of them.

"Peeves!" he barked, uncommonly pleased to see the poltergeist juggling water balloons. "Where's the trouble, Peeves, and why aren't you involved?"

Peeves dropped the balloons in surprise, and blinked at the ragged sight before him. "Why, your professorness, what _have_ you been doing?"

As was usual when talking to Peeves, Snape didn't know whether to share malicious grins or arrange for an exorcism. "Shut it Peeves," he said hoarsely. "Trouble. Where?"

Evidently, their tentative partnership was still working, as Peeves told the truth. "Girls' toilets," he said brightly, smirking. "Wouldn't want to be seen in there, Snape. Could cause _all_ sorts of rumours."

Snape did not doubt Peeves would be the source of all of them. He paid the poltergeist well, but if there was better entertainment value to be found in going against him, Peeves would take it.

"Troll?"

"Very articulate." Peeves grinned. Snape refrained with effort from telling him what he thought of _his_ linguistic skills. "Don't know anything about a troll. But there's lots of screaming going on in there," he said with relish.

Snape cursed at length and with great imagination, limping as fast as he was able to the (doubtlessly unappreciated) rescue. That he found Quirrel hiding behind a suit of armour was a definite bonus, but the appearance of a worried and infuriated Minerva was much more comforting – even Snape had his doubts about confronting a full grown mountain troll on his own, and he had no doubt that just because Quirrel had so far proven cowardly and useless, didn't mean he wasn't capable of hitting him with an _Avada Kedavra_ while he was busy. Minerva gave his bloody leg a sharp glance, but the crashing noises and screams, followed by sudden, ominous silence was evidently more worrying.

The door was blasted in, and Snape entered a place he hoped he would never see again, to be confronted by a sight he _knew _he would never see again – a twelve foot mountain troll, knocked out; Hermione Granger, flattened against a wall; Ron Weasley, staring gormlessly (scratch that, he _would_ see that again); Dunce Who Lived, trying to clean his wand of troll bogies, and studiously avoiding Harry Potter, arms crossed, looking absolutely furious. Snape edged over to the troll, and decided from the cracked mess that was once its underdeveloped skull that he could safely rule out 'unconscious'. He gave Harry Potter a swift glance, and noted his terse nod in response.

At last. Proof of his deeply-held belief that children were all vicious, murderous little bastards twice as bad as any Dark Lord.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" McGonagall hissed. Snape had rarely seen her so angry, and was only relieved that it wasn't aimed at him. "Why aren't you in your dormitories?"

There was an intensely uncomfortable period of silence while Dunce and Dumber exchanged helplessly glances and Harry eased himself seamlessly into the background and slipped out of the door. Snape was so impressed, he almost decided he wasn't going to yell at him for an hour when he saw him the Common Room. Almost.

He didn't pay much attention to the excuses, being preoccupied with practising his best glowers on Quirrel, who cringed beautifully in response. He was even more entertaining than first years, he decided, and was so engrossed with the task he almost missed Minerva handing out five points to Dunce and Dumber for… well, stupidity.

It was going to go down in Hogwarts legend, he thought resignedly, heading to the dungeons to scream at Harry Potter for an hour, or possibly six, that two first years had taken on a troll, in a girls' bathroom, and only received five points each.

"_Potter_," he hissed, sending every Slytherin scrambling for the dormitories, leaving the target of his ire to face him alone in an outstanding example of the Slytherin sense of self-preservation.

Even Harry was quite surprised to find himself still alive the next morning. As Draco Malfoy pointed out, faintly awed, nobody had _ever_ been seen outside of potions again after meeting Snape in that mood.

Snape however, had weighed the consequences, and fully expected to be reimbursed for his rare mercy at a later date. Azkaban was not on his Top Ten list of holiday destinations, and having the future saviour of the wizarding world on his side could only be good.

Now, to making sure Dunce never saw the first Quidditch match of the season...


	5. Chapter 5

Snape slunk into the staff room, claimed the chair closest to the hearth with a ill-tempered glower that kept the rest of the teachers on the other side of the room, poured himself a cup of steaming hot tea, and settled in for a nice, very long sulk.

Minerva had the good grace to keep her pleased, gloating smiles to a minimum, but when Filius started charming various inanimate objects to start chanting 'Gryffindor 210 – Slytherin 60' and Pomona started pouring glasses of Ogden's Finest… which were enthusiastically quaffed… well, the hairline crack in the teacup certainly hadn't been there before.

"Oh, cheer up, Severus." Minerva said at last, flopping (she _was_ happy, Snape noted sourly; Minerva _never_ 'flopped') into the chair opposite.

Snape snarled. It wasn't that he _liked _Quidditch, as such. He didn't, although he supported it as being the most exercise many of the children would ever get while living within Hogwarts' walls. No, it was matter of pride. Many things were a matter of pride to Snape. Slytherin had held the Cup for a long time, and Gryffindor, the most likely source of competition, had been abysmal in many matches due to the absence of a good Seeker, despite the undoubted talent of their other players. With an even remotely competent Seeker – Merlin, that galled him – he could expect many more humiliating defeats coming his way.

If only he hadn't been so distracted trying to save the Dunce Who Lived's miserable, worthless life, he'd have had plenty of time to sabotage the Gryffindor players. Yet another perfectly acceptable reason to hate the boy. As if his continued existence was worth the humiliation of that defeat.

He wondered absently if Quirrel really was working for the Dark Lord, did he know he was meant to be trying to kill the other one, or was the opportunity – as Snape suspected – simply too good to pass up?

If Snape had been in his place, he'd certainly have attempted it regardless.

"I'm not sure it counts, you know," he remarked, although without any true bitterness, still wrung out from the effort of chanting a counter-curse at five miles a minute. "I mean, he didn't actually catch it now, did he?"

"But he did have the Snitch," Minerva said firmly. "Even if the method of capture was a little… unorthodox."

"Unorthodox?" Snape baited. "He nearly swallowed it! He was choking on it!" A wicked grin crossed his face. "I must say, that sight almost made up for the fact we lost."

Minerva shook her head, unable to stop herself smiling slightly in response. "It _did_ look a little ridiculous, I'll admit," she murmured. "Firewhiskey?"

Snape shrugged elegantly. "Certainly. The flask has been a little lighter of date."

She threw him a disapproving glare that always made him feel that all was right with the world. "Severus, you really shouldn't… it's not fair after all – the rest of us have to deal with Them without the aid of alcoholic beverages."

Snape grinned. "Do you expect me to believe that? Well, I suppose there's no reason for me to buy you a bottle of sherry this Christmas, is there?"

"Hrmph."

Yes! Severus Snape 1, Minerva McGonagall 0!

"I suppose, Severus, that this rapid emptying of your infamous firewhiskey flask has something to do with Potter?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean," he said warily. The smile that crossed her face was rather too similar to a cat cleaning canary feathers off its face for his liking.

"Come, Severus, we all know that you have taken it upon yourself to tutor young Harry Potter." She glanced at him carefully sideways. "I must say," she added in an undertone, "I am most pleased to hear that you've overcome your aversion to anyone remotely connected with James. I'm very proud of you Severus."

"Hmph."

Damn. Severus Snape 1, Minerva McGonagall 1.

Dumbledore wandered in, looking, as ever, surprised to find himself in a school. "Why, hello," he said brightly. Snape exchanged wry glances with McGongall, and the two shook hands cautiously, agreement to set aside the point scoring for moment now that even better entertainment had presented itself.

"My, my," Dumbledore said, staring in bemusement at the decorations, "Gryffindor won, I take it?"

Every teacher in the room exchanged irritated sighs. Hooch conjured an overripe tomato and threw it at his beard. To Snape's delight, the rest of the faculty followed suit. Snape conjured himself several sugar pixies and directed them to attack with a feeling of indescribable glee. He was certain that this was the kick the Dark Lord got out of watching the Death Eaters jump through hoops at his whim.

Generously spattered with fruits and vegetables, Dumbledore looked much as all the teachers secretly suspected he should look all the time. Snape took pictures.

Dumbledore frowned at them, distinctly ruffled. "It was only a question," he said, with the mild reproof that could instantly reduce those it was directed at into puddles of repentant tears. All the teachers looked suitably chastened. Sinistra dropped the dish of sherbet lemons she was holding with a guilty start. Snape hid the camera in his robes before he succumbed to the urge to throw it at the floor in disappointment with his own actions.

"Now then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, vanishing the sticky mess from his clothing and beard, "about the blatant and discriminatory use of the house point system…"

* * *

Snape stared thoughtfully at his class of shivering first years. Granger appeared to be the only one capable of researching a warming charm. The rest of the Gryffindors, he was pleased to note, appeared to be trying to set themselves on fire, huddled as closely to their cauldrons as they were. 

He kept one eye on Longbottom as he made his rounds, fully expecting him to melt his third cauldron of the year soon. And if he didn't, Snape might be forced to commit a little sabotage – he'd lost five galleons to Minerva over that Quirrel bet, he was _not_ losing again.

A muffled boom and several screams were heard after his second pass. "Detention, Longbottom," he said absently, banishing the mess to Minerva's office. Proof, of course.

He returned to the front of the class to claim his place as lord and master of all he surveyed. There were occasional upsides to teaching, he'd been told, but this was the only one he could think of. Privately, Snape suspected the Dark Lord's ego-trip was simply a substitution for teaching.

"Your homework is on the board," he said flatly. "If you don't turn it in on the first lesson after the Christmas holidays, don't bother coming back at all."

At least three people nearly became imbedded in the stone floor in the stampede to leave.

Snape waited until the last of them was out of sight before he poured himself a generous measure of brandy in commemoration. One term successfully survived. If he could just last the rest of the seven years of Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts without the Dark Lord breaking every natural law and coming back to life…

"To the Boy Who Lived," he said dryly, raising his glass – and wondered for a moment which one he meant, the real one or the supposed one, before deciding it hardly mattered. "Long may he continue to distract the Dark Lord from me."

* * *

Watching Longbottom attempt to clean cauldrons of whatever vile mess had congealed there, started breeding, and was now planning to take over the world, Snape could see it already. Sooner or later, this boy, capable of blowing up even a swelling solution, was going to kill everyone in the class. 

Snape could stand no more. In a choice between ensuring his students lived to see graduation and maintaining his reputation as a Heartless Slytherin Bastard™, the former meant he would receive fewer lawsuits.

"Longbottom," he said. Longbottom jumped so badly Snape was surprised he managed to stay in his skin. "Let me tell you something that may save the lives of everyone unfortunate enough to share a Potions class with you: Potions is closely connected with Herbology." He took a deep breath to prepare himself for his next words. "You are _good_ at Herbology. Outstanding, in fact, though if you tell _anyone_ I said that you _will_ be in detention for the rest of your natural life. Ergo, if you only apply your talent with one to the other, you will not suffer in my class. Understand?"

There was a pitiful squeak that indicated surprise and confusion to Snape's well-trained ear. Longbottom's face was a hideous colour closely resembling porridge, and he seemed quite ready to faint if Snape said anything else. In a fit of unaccustomed pity, he sent the gibbering Longbottom back to his Common Room after an hour. He suspected he might have irreparably damaged him.

He mulled that thought over for a moment before shrugging and started searching for the answer to a question that occasionally proved vexing.

The Dunce's real name.

After two hours, most of them spent rummaging first through Filch's filing cabinets and then Dumbledore's office, Snape finally held in his hands The Answer. He unrolled the piece of parchment with mild curiosity.

His lower jaw imitated the totem of his House for a moment and completely unhinged.

Connor Nathan Jericho Michael Darius Percival Merlin Godric Potter?!

Snape stared. "And they call us Slytherins_ s_adists," he said at last. He picked up a quill and pulled the certificate towards him. "Hm." He murmured.

By the time he left, whistling the most sinister version of 'The Teddy Bear's Picnic' ever heard (complete with gory examples of judicious violence) the birth certificate behind him read 'Rosalind Potter'

James Potter would probably just be incensed that a prank had been committed that most definitely outclassed any of his own unsubtle works. But he knew for a fact that Lily had always wanted a little girl and who was he to say no to Lily Evans?

The psychological damage was a bonus, naturally.

* * *

"_What did you do?_" 

Snape opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. There might be worse things to see upon waking, but a fire-breathing Minerva McGonagall was definitely near the top of the list. He blinked.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

She shoved a brightly-wrapped present under his nose. Snape was only mildly dissatisfied to discover the card read 'Rosalind Potter'. "Every – single – present, Severus." She hissed. Snape wondered if she even cared her professionalism had just flown out of the window.

"Mm. And I should care – why?"

She pulled her wand out from her sleeve and aimed it somewhere vital. Snape let his eyes drift around the room in search for anything nearby that might provide a suitable weapon. "It _is_ his name," he pointed out reprovingly.

He always _knew_ her eyes really could flash lightning when angry.

"Every single piece of correspondence, every record, now states 'Rosalind Potter'. Any attempt to use his actual name results in 'Rosalind'. What. Have. You. Done?"

Snape allowed himself a smug smile as she attempted to strangle thin air.

"It could have been worse," he said piously. "I could have renamed him Cindy." He paused. "Or even Barbie. Credit me with a little discernment that he merited 'Rosalind'. Poor Shakespeare."

He deserved the slap that followed, he supposed. "You will fix it," she insisted. "Or else."

The level of venom she could pack into 'or else' could eat through seven layers of shielding spells. Snape was insanely jealous. He decided it was probably not the best time to ask her how she did it.

"It'll be fixed," he said dismissively, waving her away, much to her annoyance.

"I'm serious, Severus! He'll be damaged for life!"

"I hope so," Snape responded instantly before his survival instincts caught up with his mouth. When she turned and stormed out without a word (or a curse) he was more worried than if he'd realised he was late for a Death Eater meeting.

This did not bode well. Not at all.

Then he imagined the look on James Potter's face upon discovering his precious firstborn brat and supposed saviour of the Wizarding World was now called Rosalind, and decided it would be well worth whatever Minerva handed out.

Eventually – having driven the few Slytherins remaining for the Christmas break away from the dungeons to the sound of his maniacal laughter – Dumbledore sent Tipsy the House Elf (Snape had offended to poor thing terribly by inquiring what lunatic had named her when they first met; consequently, Dumbledore used her to communicate with him at all times a third party was necessary) to remind him that if he was late for Christmas dinner, the Weasley twins would get there first.

The only time Snape had moved faster was when being chased by Fluffy.

* * *

Credit goes to Morbious20 and Anna Potter-Snape for the scene with Dunce's name – whatever would I do without you people? 


	6. Chapter 6

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Severus," Dumbledore said, pouring the tea from his hideously patterned teapot and grabbing the biscuit tin as it made a break for freedom. Snape noted he was still wearing the flowery bonnet from his Christmas cracker.

"I had a choice? It's a little late to tell me that now." Snape said, lingering over his choice of biscuit just to watch the half-sentient container cringe.

"Severus," Dumbledore said steadily, surveying him grimly through his half-moon glasses. The rare sight of Dumbledore being serious usually heralded danger, but it was just a little hard to feel the appropriate sense of dread when he wore a flowery bonnet.

Snape sighed. No teasing? No seemingly gentle but in actuality, terribly underhanded remarks? Not even a weak pretence at scatter-brained eccentricity? Clearly he'd overstepped a mark somewhere.

He ran through the long list of unspoken rules he'd broken with great glee since the holidays had begun. He'd driven a Hufflepuff or two to mental breakdown, but the Headmaster cared very little for 'Puffs. He'd taken an exorbitant amount of points from Gryffindor for singing Christmas carols in the halls. He'd given Slytherin an exorbitant amount of points just for being at Hogwarts for the holidays. He didn't think he'd murdered anybody, whether accidental or not. He was pretty sure nobody had seen him curse the stairs leading to the Gryffindor tower to melt and reform over someone's feet if they were wearing a 'Weasley jumper'. He certainly hadn't been seen anywhere near Weasley's rat when it was found struggling to prevent itself being hanged by its own tail.

"Severus, I know you do not like young Mr. Potter, but your conduct in this instance is appalling."

Snape fixed his gaze quite firmly on his custard cream, knowing that if he met The Eyes he was doomed. With a capital, curly, Dumbledoresque 'D'.

That narrowed it down a little. What had he done to _Potter_ lately? He'd cursed him to break into song (there may or may not have been a truly terrible rendition of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow' at some point) whenever he saw a suit of armour. He'd used Legilimency on him, but that had been an exercise in pointlessness given that he didn't think much. He'd taken points from him for scowling. He'd changed his name to 'Rosalind', but that was an improvement anyway, and nobody of importance had noticed until earlier that morning. He might have charmed his robes to flash green and silver whenever he said 'Slytherin' 'Malfoy' or 'Snape', and given that Christmas season was complaining season, they'd been near permanently in the green. He may have slipped him a hair-raising potion at some point. And then there was the incident with the unicorn hair net that had been very complicated and time-consuming to set up, but worth it for Dunce's repeated and helpless attempts to escape…

"I have had several – explosively worded letters from James about your little… _prank_ regarding his name."

Ah, so _that _was what the Howlers had been for. Pity Snape had destroyed them the moment the owls had dropped them.

"Does he think he has the monopoly on them?" Snape said irritably, the biscuit rapidly becoming a fine scattering of crumbs across Dumbledore's desk.

_Must not look into its eyes… _

"It was very cruel, Severus," Dumbledore said, ignoring the question. Snape muttered several extremely painful alternatives he would have been far more pleased to try if it weren't against both school regulations and wizarding law, before pointing out, sotto voce, that Potter and Black's pranks had hardly been rainbows and kittens, and had, on occasion, been quite murderous, for which they had never been penalised.

Dumbledore ignored him. Snape was not terribly surprised.

"It would also be greatly appreciated by many members of staff, I'm sure, if you did not have your pictures developed."

Snape had thought Minerva far too drunk to notice he'd caught her being kissed by Hagrid and blushing like a schoolgirl. And of course, Snape had been collecting blackmail pictures of Dumbeldore from the moment he received the camera. What else, exactly, had the irritating man expected of him? _You need a hobby, Severus. Here, Severus. I'm sure photography will be the perfect hobby for you, and _so_ apt._

He made a show of handing over the camera with extreme reluctance, and made quite sure to have firm Occlumency barriers in place. Just in case. True, he had several copies of the negatives hidden away in various places, but you could never be quite sure with Dumbledore, who was trickier than a Rubik cube.

"Now, Severus about the Mirror…"

Snape felt his blackened heart sink to his boots as Dumbledore explained the Mirror was not – as Snape and all the other teachers had foolishly believed – surrounded by the many and varied protections they had expended so much time and effort on but instead was hidden away in one of the unused rooms waiting for Dunce to discover it and be fed yet another hint.

Sometimes Snape suspected Dumbledore read far too many detective novels for his own good.

* * *

Snape was particularly fond of midnight patrol. As part-bat, it was natural for him to be awake at all hours anyway, and as a vindictive and cruel human being, he relished the opportunity to scare students witless. If they were out of bounds at midnight, well, they deserved it, didn't they, the little rule-breaking monsters.

"Professor!"

Snape whirled around, a delicious sense of anticipation flooding through him at the note of fury in Filch's voice. _Students out of bed_. Oh yes, his luck was good tonight.

"Students out of bed in the Restricted Section," Filch said crisply. Snape bared his teeth in a manner that might, with considerable effort, be said to resemble a smile.

"They can't have gone far," he said. Filch's look of glee could have given a dragon a heart attack. McGonagall had once said that Snape and Filch on midnight patrol reminded her very strongly of a pair of hounds on the hunt. Perhaps a pair of Cu Sith.

"Left," Snape barked, slipping into his role as Filch's hunting partner with ease. Filch nodded and peeled away down the left corridor, while Snape turned right. Mirror of Erised time.

_Please, please, please it be the Dunce_, he prayed as he flung the door open (half of him gloomily pointing out that midnight forays into the Restricted Section were more likely to come from his Potter). He surveyed the room for a long moment, unable to process what his eyes were trying to beat into his brain with all the subtlety of rampaging Hippogriff.

Empty. He frowned. And yet… dust on the floor… recently disturbed. Footprints going in, but none leading out. So the boy was somewhere in the room, and couldn't possibly know invisibility charms… The implications sent a cold shiver of fear down his back. Potter's form of payback was to give the boy an invisibility cloak. Oh. Oh Voldemort on a soapbox. His life was _ruined_.

He stumbled out of the room and contemplated the magical impossibility of casting the Avada Kedavra curse on himself. It was unfortunate the strength of will and magic could not be mustered – it would be quick, instead of the slow, crushing inevitability of the Dunce driving him to his early grave. It would definitely be far less mortifying. Plus, he would no longer be required to attend faculty meetings. Perhaps he should simply beat his brains out against the wall?

No, no, that wouldn't do at all… Severus Snape, world's youngest Potions Master, Death Eater, greasy git extraordinaire, defeated by a brick wall?

No. Just no.

There was always Caesar's choice, he mused. Sadly, he would be limited to the 'dagger' half the option – there was absolutely no way he was going to put up with the mortification of having his obituary state that he'd died of poison.

Damage limitation then – kill the Dunce before he made suicide appear the most attractive option. Yes. A Perfect solution. Except… no, best not. Not just yet – if Dunce died, Harry would forced out into the open as the true 'Boy Who Lived' (if he ever found out just who was responsible for that sobriquet he'd teach them all what a _competent_ Death Eater could do), and Snape's job would become so immensely difficult.

He sighed mournfully. He'd best make quite sure that Dumbledore knew Dunce had seen the Mirror and it could now be moved. It would be just like him to let himself waste away in front of a piece of glass.

He had to admit, he was also somewhat curious as to what the boy saw in the Mirror. Supposed saviour of the world and all that. Probably saw himself playing Quidditch for England, irritating boy.

* * *

"Being crowned king of wizardkind?!" 


	7. Chapter 7

"I hear tell," Potter said softly, watching him with those blank green eyes, "that you are to referee the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match."

Snape wondered where Potter had learnt his low-key intimidation tactics from, and contemplated giving him further pointers. "You heard correctly," he said stiffly, pretending, in true Slytherin style, that he had no idea why Potter had decided to start up the conversation, or that they weren't going to spend the next ten to fifteen minutes sparring verbally to gain more information from what they didn't say than what they did. The Art of Slytherin Conversation was something he enjoyed, so long as his opponent was as similarly skilled as himself.

It said much, Snape felt, that one of his best opponents was Dumbledore.

"Would this have anything to do, perhaps, with the jinxing of the Gryffindor Seeker's broom in the previous match?"

Snape nodded his approval of both the hypothesis and the impersonal reference to his own twin.

"And the spontaneous outbreak of fire among the teacher's section as they watched?"

Snape smiled grimly. He wondered if the boy would take it amiss if he asked him if he was absolutely sure of his paternity. "Indeed." He said (if it had been Dumbledore speaking, the term to describe his voice then would have been 'pleasant', but Snape had never been described as 'pleasant' in his entire life). It wasn't that he didn't have faith in the boy's ability to read his facial expressions, but he knew Potter preferred to be told out loud if his reasoning was correct or not, possibly because it had previously been extremely rare for someone to speak to him. Snape would have to teach him to abandon that need eventually – body language and facial expressions were vital components to the art of Slytherin Conversation, of equal or greater importance than the ability to twist words and topics around endlessly to the point of revealing nothing of importance and learning everything of importance.

Snape was an exceptionally good spy. This made him feel absolutely no better about being able to infer from startlingly few clues that Harry Potter preferred to be spoken to over reading someone's expressions.

"I'll bet that didn't go down well with the Gryffindors," Harry mused, eyes glittering in the malevolent way of a true Slytherin faced with Gryffindor discomposure.

"No," Snape said coolly. "But then, it doesn't settle particularly well with me either. You have _no _idea what Madam Hooch is capable of."

"Ah," Harry said, and Snape cursed himself for revealing information unnecessarily. "Dumbledore's orders then."

"…are you completely sure," Snape said idly, quickly and effortlessly turning the conversation away from such dangerous information and pretending he hadn't heard the previous statement, "you are the offspring of James Potter?"

He was rewarded with the rare sight of Harry Potter completely stunned. "Guh…?"

Snape smiled. "Rest assured, Potter, I will do my absolute best to make both Gryffindor and Dumbledore regret the situation as much as I myself do."

"Mental images," the boy muttered obliviously, hands clasped tightly to his head. "…mental images…"

"Yes," Snape said dryly. "Welcome to the slightly early and no doubt stunning discovery that adults can, will, and do have sex. I know," he said pityingly at the boy's horrified whimper, "you don't like to think of it, but I'm afraid we do not stop being sexual beings the moment we have the misfortune to produce offspring."

"Sir," he said helplessly, "Does Hogwarts have Sex Ed classes, and please tell me you don't lead them."

"We draw straws," Snape said imperturbably. "Strangely enough, in my eleven years of teaching I have drawn the short straw only once. An unusual number of students present for those classes went on to end up in time-consuming and isolationist jobs."

"…"

"Yes," Snape nodded at his blank look. "I thought that too."

* * *

"Threaten Quirrel? Don't threaten Quirrel?" 

"You're asking me?" Harry said interestedly. "Is Quirrel worth wasting your time on? He appears to be weak and ineffectual to me."

"You need to understand the complexities of the situation." Snape paused. He gave him a stern look. "I am breaking every rule in the book telling you this," he said.

"Yes, yes," Harry said dryly. "I do, of course, thank you from the bottom of my semi-functional heart for your honesty. Please, elaborate upon the complexities I am not supposed to know of."

Snape grinned almost involuntarily. Students like Potter restored his faith in the existence of intelligence. Or would, if he had ever thought of the wizarding world possessing any in the first place. "The deal is this," he began. "Quirinus Quirrel left the school for a year a rational, articulate, if slightly bookish man. He returns, not to put too fine a point on it, a stuttering idiot who makes even Crabbe look like a genius of world-class calibre."

"Hmm," Harry said.

"Dumbledore takes great care never to make anything explicit, whether that is instructions or information… It is highly unusual for him to request that I keep an eye on Quirrel."

"I see," Harry said thoughtfully. "Why bother unless…"

"Mm." Snape said. Click. Philosopher's Stone. Snap. Troll. Quirrel. Light bulb. Voldemort?

"If he is in any way affiliated with Voldemort and _is_ in contact with him… put it simply, you're screwed."

"Thank you for that terribly optimistic thought." Snape said. "But, perhaps he is simply a weak man tempted by gold and immortality. That is a different matter entirely. Or," he mused, doodling idly on the margins of a sixth year's essay, "If he is in _infrequent_ contact with the Dark Lord…"

"If he manages to inform Voldemort you're still screwed."

"… Mr. Potter, do remember that I am not only giving you vital information, I am also the one who is going to ensure you reach your teens."

The boy shrugged, insultingly nonchalant. "You did ask," he pointed out. "And do you really think it likely I'm going to die before my thirteenth birthday?"

"This is a magic school. As proficient as Madam Pomfrey is, there are still some things magic can't fix. Trust me, I have experimented with most of them."

"Strangely, that isn't as comforting as you probably think it is."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Look at it this way. I am on your side."

They stared at each other for a long moment before Harry burst out laughing and shook his head. "As if I'd believe that," he said wryly.

Snape considered it a minor pity that the Slytherin Art of Conversation also destroyed any trust in someone else's motives.

* * *

As it happened, he did threaten Quirrel after the disastrous Quidditch match. He also knew he'd been overheard because from that point on Dunce Who Lived and his coterie kept looking at him as if he was going to _avada kedavra _them the second they turned their backs. They were insultingly obvious about it. 

Snape felt like weeping for the future of wizarding kind, but consoled himself with playing elaborate mind games with the intelligent Potter. He discovered resources of patience within himself that put Minerva – in cat form – to shame. Although, admittedly, it helped that he never had to repeat a lesson twice, and that Harry was very quick to adapt and respond to challenges of the intellectual variety.

Snape also made it quite clear that he would personally torture him until he begged for death if he even thought about involving himself with the Stone. The job was difficult enough already, thank you very much, Snape did not need unnecessary complications.

He'd do his best to keep Dunce Who Lived from danger if he thought that would help keep _Harry_ safe and out of danger, but anything more was simply too much.

Snape wondered when the hell he'd turned into a Gryffindor. He grasped that thought by the throat, strangled it, and buried it in a shallow grave.

He would, however, have an answer out of Quirrel if it was the last thing he did.

And there was absolutely no way he, Severus Snape, potions master and spy extraordinaire, was going to die this early in the game.

* * *

A/N: Whoever it was that lured me into the Death Note fandom via their favourites list: _I hate you_. And now want to write DN crack, and it is all your fault - whoever you are. 

In my defence regarding the lateness of this chapter, I submit Exhibit A – Deathly Hallows. Yes, I know it's been months upon months, but I found it very difficult to reconcile evil sarcastic bastard Snape with Tragic!Lovesick!Snape. Just imagine what could have been…

Snape: Harry, I am your father.  
Harry: What?!  
Snape: No, only joking. But I could have been.  
Harry: _What?!_

No, wait, Vader!Snape fics have always been immensely prolific. ...Mass ESP?


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes Snape felt certain that the only reason Lucius Malfoy had procreated at all was to ensure Snape was driven to the pit of despair by his mini-spawn. Malfoys throughout history boasted of their ability to instil in normally perfectly sensible people homicidal urges that would land them in Azkaban for life, and Draco Malfoy had evidently taken his lessons to heart and started a few years earlier than most.

How fortunate that the current trend among purebloods was to have only one child.

"A dragon," Snape said. He'd heard a great many absurd tales in his time as teacher – what teacher hadn't? – but someone smuggling a highly illegal dragon into a school? No, this story just edged out over the one he heard from a Gryffindor about being allergic to homework.

And paled in entertainment value against the time a sixth year of his house had decided to teach the Giant Squid to play fetch with muggleborn first years. An entirely unnecessary and cruel trick that had earned him two months in detention – it now spent every Sorting waiting patiently for first years to fall into the Lake, and was always disappointed.

Draco looked unrepentantly certain.

"A dragon," Snape repeated, just to be sure.

He nodded.

"…leave Draco."

"But what about--"

"_Leave_, Draco."

The boy stormed off in a huff obviously imitated from his father – no wait, Malfoys did not huff, Snape recalled, they stalked off in aristocratic fury. Either way, it looked childish on both the eleven-year-old boy and his father.

A dragon. This needed further investigation. Surely Hagrid couldn't be stupid enou-

Never mind. But it still needed further investigation.

* * *

Snape entered the classroom with the edges of his robes still smoking faintly.

"I expected times like this," he said wearily to Potter as he watched him hunch over his cauldron, frowning in concentration as he attempted to brew a potion from a curriculum two years above him. "I just didn't think they'd be so bad, so long or so frequent."

"Am I supposed to comfort you?" the boy asked from somewhere behind the copious clouds of steam, sounding vaguely curious as to his answer.

"Slytherins do not comfort." Snape said dispassionately, "The saying sink or swim really does apply. Except that in Slytherin, your fellow students will take bites out of you as you go down. Backstabbery is a fun pastime for us."

Harry blew his over-long black hair out of his eyes. "…remind me why anyone wants to be in Slytherin again?"

"Because we are, quite simply, superior in every way, and the inferior must be weeded out."

"Okay," Harry said at last, after the potion he'd been attempting congealed into a thick sludge that Snape suspected he could sell for good money to Jigger's as an anti-wrinkle cream, "I'll bite. What has happened that's so bad?"

"Hagrid-" Snape said the name as if it were synonymous with absolute, complete, wheel turning but the hamster's dead, stupidity, "--has an illegally hatched, fire-breathing baby dragon in his hut. His wooden hut."

"Hm," Harry said. Snape was pleased he had enough sense not to say 'Is that all', although he looked as if he wanted to.

"Draco," he continued, "Will be trying to get your brother and his sidekicks in trouble, and probably screw it up."

Harry raised an eyebrow eloquently.

"It's in his blood," Snape explained irritably. "I can do nothing about genetics, whatever else I may be capable of helping him with."

Harry contemplated this thought for a moment before nodding encouragingly at him to continue.

"And I have the terrible feeling that I am watching a chess game play out and the pawns are falling right into a trap."

Harry thought about this. "At least it's not Voldemort," he said at last.

Snape stared at him. "Actually," he said, "I'm quite worried it is."

"Ah," said Harry.

There was really nothing that could be said in response to that.

* * *

Snape suspected that Dumbledore had been snorting pixie dust. That was the only possible explanation he could think of for this latest turn of events.

"What is he thinking?!" McGonagall snarled from her seat by the fire, her hands stretching and flexing into claws.

Snape nodded understandingly, and offered a drink.

"Fifty points each?! We'll never recover enough points to get the Cup!"

Snape tried his hardest to appear sympathetic to her plight. Really he did. "You know of course, that it was all Hagrid's fault in the first place."

"Exactly!" She declared, irritated. "Wait. Are you telling me there really _was _a dragon?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Snape said diffidently.

McGonagall took the sensible, sanity-preserving route, and declined to follow up on her query, returning to her original train of thought. "And the detention!"

"Over a month late and in the Forbidden Forest," Snape said, "Yes, I know. Suspicious, hm?"

"Suspicious?!" she growled. "_Suspicious_?! I've seen _Death Eaters_ less suspicious!"

Snape winced minutely. McGonagall was almost Slytherin in her ability to push his buttons.

"Don't you have anything stronger, Severus?" she said curiously after a moment, swigging the Firewhiskey as if it were water.

Snape paused. He liked Minerva. Sometimes. She was fun to needle, had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor allied with the acid tongue of a Slytherin, and the way she managed to (repeatedly) keep him from simply offing Dumbledore in a fit of rage was nothing less than a work of art.

That didn't mean he was willing to part with his alcohol for her.

"Are we allowed to send first years into the Forbidden Forest?" he mused aloud, neatly sidestepping the question. "In fact, have we ever sent _seventh years _into the Forest for detention?"

"…not that I can recall off the top of my head," she said, calling a House Elf to provide more bottles of Rosmerta's finest mead. "Although I am sure that one day the Weasley twins will push me too far. But with something hunting _unicorns_ in there?" She looked up and fixed him with a significant look. "Does this seem a mite too convenient to you?"

"Welcome, Minerva, to the service of the Greater Good," Snape said dryly. "Capitals optional."

"…Dumbledore." She said.

"Yes."

"_Dumbledore_," she said. Snape actually managed to feel a smidge of pity for the twinkle-eyed bastard. "You mean to tell me he will put _my _students in danger for – for--"

"A test," Snape said. "Absolutely. How better to determine that Dunce is worthy to face the Dark Lord at the end of the year?"

"…What do you mean?" she said after a long moment, deadly quiet. Snape _felt_ the danger in her voice, never mind heard it.

"Come, Minerva. Why else send in students unable to do much magic at all, after something evil enough to kill a unicorn? And the Stone! The protection on it is ludicrous faced with the Dark Lord. Dumbledore is planning something."

Snape was impressed, not only by the volume, but by the scope, ingenuity and sheer vulgarity of her curses for Dumbledore. "It is a tempting idea, Minerva, I know," he soothed, "But you cannot simply storm into the Headmaster's office and threaten – or even attempt – to castrate him with rusty dagger."

The alternative she offered was even more painful, if possible. Snape was more than just impressed. He was quite willing to discard his innate hatred of Gryffindors and worship at her tartan-slippered feet.

"That too, would likely earn you a lifetime's pass to Azkaban," he said, a clear note of admiration in his voice.

"Thank you," she said after a moment's contemplation. "What, exactly, do you suggest we do, Severus?"

Snape thought about it for a long moment. As beneficial as Minerva's help would be to his campaign, only a Slytherin could understand the joy of destroying the well-laid plans of others. Only a Slytherin could truly appreciate the complexities of being part of the plan while at the same time looking at it from the outside and moving pieces while the master's back was turned.

"I'm sorry, Minerva," he said at last, with genuine disappointment. "But you have unfortunately been branded from Sorting with the red and gold of Gryffindor."

"I suppose saying 'go to hell' would be unprofessional."

Snape shrugged. "When has a Hogwarts teacher ever been professional?"

"Too true," she said shortly. "But seriously, Severus, you can't possibly expect me to—"

"Minerva, it takes a Gryffindor a year to solve a puzzle. Your graduating class has a tradition of wearing robes declaring 'Dare me. I am Gryffindor' on the back. This is a job for a Slytherin."

"…Severus, last year's graduating class of Slytherins wore badges saying, if I recall correctly, 'All your dark corners are belong to us.'"

"…'Gryffindor. Because thinking beforehand is overrated.'"

She glared. It was not on par with previous glares against (on various occasions) Filch, Quirrel, Dumbledore or the Weasley twins, but it was a terrifying thing nonetheless. "And your own graduating class," she continued loudly, pretending he hadn't spoken, "wore hats with silver sequin covered velvet snakes wrapped around them that hissed 'kill him, he's not one of ours' whenever faced with a student wearing the colours of another House."

"Well, with the Marauders graduating at the same time, we had to have something out of the ordinary that year."

"Still."

They argued long into the night, and the only discernable result at the end was that she agreed to alert him to anything truly out of the ordinary. He swore in return that he would do his best to ensure Dunce Who Lived got through whatever encounter Dumbledore had planned. He artfully avoided promising to make sure Dunce Who Lived was never forced into whatever encounter Dumbledore had planned in the first place.

* * *

He waited patiently for his godson to return – preferably in one piece – along with Longbotton, Weasley and the Dunce Who Lived, preferably in multiple pieces. He had a terrible feeling about this detention. Especially with _Hagrid_ as the supervising authority. That was just asking for trouble.

It was early morning by the time Draco stumbled into his quarters, wide-eyed and shuddering. Snape couldn't quite recall, but he was fairly certain detentions weren't supposed to run after midnight, even inside the Castle. At least, Dumbledore had never let _him_ torture students for longer than five hours at a stretch.

"Well?" he demanded curiously, looming over his shaken godson.

"…I saw a hooded figure drinking _unicorn blood_ and you want me to give you exact rundown on everything that happened?"

"Yes, Draco, I do expect that of you. A Slytherin does not stop thinking when he is a dangerous position. If anything, you should be noticing everything and thinking faster than at your normal rate."

_Which is only a little faster than a crippled flobberworm_, he thought, but out of misplaced loyalty tactfully didn't say.

"But Sev-"

"Everything, Draco. The ability to think in a stressful situation will be useful for you one day, as will the ability to recall the minutiae of such situations after the event."

"What, for my nightmares?" he snorted.

Snape's flat gaze was even more terrifying than his habitual scowl. "If you regard that as nightmare, Draco, I weep for your future. Now. Start at the beginning."

"Okay, okay! The oaf split us into two groups-"

"On second thought, please tell me you're lying."

"Wasn't he supposed to do that?"

"…don't be a total idiot. Children, especially first years, unarmed and unable to do much magic at all – _don't argue with me, Draco!_ – are not meant to go alone _anywhere_ in the Forbidden Forest."

"…we had the dog."

"The dog. Well, that changes everything. Of course you were safe with that cowardly monstrosity around. Go ahead, Draco."

"So we were split into two groups…"

* * *

"I suspect a plot." Snape declared.

"In Slytherin?" Potter said dryly, looking up from his book, _A Dark Lord's Guide to World Domination_. "Who would have thought?"

"No, I mean an outside plot, involving one Dark Lord, one Philosopher's Stone and several traps that I suspect may have already been subverted."

"Ah." He paused. "Any chance my brother could be gravely injured?" he inquired hopefully.

Snape considered the potential situation for a moment, paying particular attention to Dunce's magical skills, impetuosity and the likelihood of the Dark Lord's personal involvement. "Quite a high probability."

"Do we actually have a problem, then?"

"Not unless you do something foolish," Snape said grimly.

The grin Potter gave him in response was so breathtakingly Lily Snape knew something was up. "I?" he said easily, the picture of innocence.

"You." Snape said flatly. "I will Petrify you and stick you to the Common Room ceiling if I feel I have to, Potter."

He laughed. _Laughed_. At Snape. "Are you _worried_ about me, sir?"

"No." He took a very sharp silver knife from his workstation and tested the edge quite conspicuously. "Let me be very clear on this matter. You are going to disassociate yourself completely from such acts of stupidity as your brother perpetuates. You are going to train like you have no other thought in your head, and eventually you _are_ going to defeat the Dark Lord, thus ensuring _my _continued survival. After that, I couldn't care less."

Harry raised an eyebrow speculatively. "If I were an evil overlord," he said, "You'd be much higher up the chain of command. I can't imagine Malfoy or his cronies being so practical. Or useful."

"Fortunately," Snape said, "You are _not_ a Dark Lord in control of the magical community. And if you intend to be, I ask that you take good note of the fact that my actions towards you now are for your future benefit."

"Duly noted," Potter said pleasantly. "What are my brother's chances of mutilation?"

"I'd say about seven percent."

"Death?"

"Eighty-five, at least. Dumbledore is quite lax about his fail-safes."

"Insanity?"

"Impossible to quantify; that requires having sanity in the first place."

"Hmmm. Five galleons Volde—"

"Don't say it."

"-mort is thwarted in the matter of the Stone, but does some damage to him at least."

"How much damage?"

"Three days in the hospital wing, at least."

"Bet taken."


	9. Chapter 9

Dumbledore was having the time of his life. He'd always secretly wanted to indulge his evil mastermind/omniscient bastard/grand chessmaster persona in a suitably deranged manner, and with the Stone, the myriad traps and his delightful pawns (no, that _was_ appropriate he decided in the safety of his own thoughts) he counted himself well and truly indulged.

Ooh, pepper imps.

Nothing would go seriously wrong. He had Severus on the job after all, picking up the slack out of sight. Of course the dear boy would never get any recognition for his hard work, and even if revealed would still be regarded with suspicion and paranoia. Severus did the Skulking Evil Bastard in Black so well. Perhaps a little too well, but alas, those were the breaks.

…cockroach cluster…? …well, got to try everything once. Except Bertie Botts of course, that was futile.

Aha… here was the urgent summons to the Ministry that he'd been waiting for the past few weeks. So good of Tom to wait until the exams finished before making an attempt on the Stone. He suspected this could well become a ritual – every June, a nice punctual attack on life, limb, Hogwarts and/or Ministry. Evil did so love its meticulous plans.

Sometimes, Dumbledore mused sympathetically as he sucked meditatively on his Blood Pop (O Negative. No, don't ask), Slytherin caution worked against the goal. Prudence was all well and good, but taken to excess it gave Gryffindors time to figure out what was going on.

He whistled as he made his way to Hagrid's hut to request a thestral (he didn't want to be at the Ministry _too_ fast; if he apparated there he'd know within a matter of minutes his presence was highly unnecessary and he'd have to wait around for ages while Tom made his move). He really ought to tell Minerva he was going (because of course his little Gryffindor pawns would go to their head of house upon finally realising the secret of Fluffy was out) but he had to confess, after their last argument – involving the destruction of much of the North Tower – he wasn't over keen to meet her without the safety of other teachers around to keep her in check.

Speak of the Devil… "Minerva!"

Cat Stare o' Doom.

"Delighted to see you!"

…he was reasonably sure she didn't usually have claws like that outside of her animagus form…

"Albus." That… was the scariest intonation of his name he'd ever heard from a professed friend. It sounded so terribly like a hissing cat, and even Dumbledore was sensible enough to be afraid of an enraged cat. "To what do I owe this… honour?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said happily, "well you see I've just had a recent and urgent – most urgent – summons from the Ministry… so…"

"…so… does our esteemed Minister need help deciding whether he should wear brown shoes or black ones to the French Minister's cocktail party?"

"You're in charge during my absence, I should be back sometime tomorrow morning, bye now!" He did the only sensible thing he could do faced with her incredulous stare (rapidly morphing into incredulous fury). He ran for the remnants of his long life.

"Dumbledore!"

A fire-breathing dragon would have been a far more appropriate animagus form for Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore felt, and sped up.

"DUMBLEDORE!"

* * *

Snape was not in a good mood. The only thing that could possibly make even the slightest impact for the positive on his current state of infuriation involved the use of very strong and highly illegal substances. Or possibly an incident involving the application of several very dangerous curses on a Gryffindor first year and ending on a moonless night with a shallow grave.

He was never his most charming at exam time anyway, and this year he had the added stress of wondering whether or not the Dark Lord and/or minion would make an attempt on the Philosopher's Stone while he was preoccupied ensuring morons lived to graduate/return another year.

He was going to be white haired in a matter of years. Maybe even before he managed to reach thirty-five, the way things were currently going, and he'd had a tension headache for the past two days.

Quite frankly, he was suffering. Snape did not like suffering. The one thing he had found to combat its terrible effects on his sleeping schedule and temper was to share the suffering, to the eternal gratitude of students everywhere. Character-building, that's what it was.

Hence: "You will write it until your hand starts cramping and is in serious danger of never being able to wield a quill again."

"But sir--!" Marcus Flint was not the smartest of Slytherins.

"'First years should not be encouraged to befriend the Whomping Willow, nor should they be given plans perpetuating the delusion that it is possible to build a tree house in its branches.' I have already specified the conditions required before I let you leave this classroom."

"They were Gryffindors!" Flint protested. Normally, that _would_ have calmed Snape's ire.

"And I have a temporary truce with McGonagall. Do you have any idea how much wrangling that took? And for it all to nearly be undone by your foolishness!"

"But _sir_--" Definitely not the smartest of Slytherins.

"Write, Flint!"

He couldn't be quite sure that Flint was truly obeying his instructions, Flint's handwriting being worse than Hagrid after several bottles of his potent homemade liquor (strong enough to reduce dragons to a state of slight tipsiness), but he trusted that regardless of what was being written the charms on the quill would make sure he stopped only when his hand was so swollen the quill was no longer in contact with the parchment.

"Severus! Code Green!" exclaimed the porcelain cat statue sitting on his desk (because in a battle, it was the green curse you really had to look out for). "Dumbledore has left the building!"

And there was the only thing that could possibly make his bad mood worse.

There were times that called for the use of ancient and powerful words, the acknowledgment of humans in a crisis everywhere and everywhen since language was first invented. "Shit." Snape said.

* * *

"Dunce knows someone is after the Stone?"

"I keep telling you not to call him that," Minerva snapped. "But yes. I was surprised he knew of it, naturally-"

"So would I be in your place," Snape said dryly. "Clearly Granger has been working overtime."

"Hmph." McGonagall said, but didn't argue. After all, it was true and they both knew it.

"I overheard –" he struggled with his first instinct for a moment, then snarled, "_the boy_ and his coterie planning on heading towards the third floor. I would suggest heading there, just in case." He paused to judge her reaction. Not good. No harm in making it worse then. "Though, given the disposition of the Potter brat I'm pretty sure that even if prevented they'll try again at night."

"Idiots," McGonagall moaned. "Why are my students such _idiots_?"

"…that is a rhetorical question, I assume?"

"Yes damn you. Don't even _think_ about answering."

Snape held his hands up in supplication. "Of course," he said soothingly. "Of course. Wouldn't dream of it."

_Reason 1: They are Gryffindors._

_Reason 2: Your mascot is a lion, your house name derived from a griffin and in a thousand years, none of your students has thought to question this disparity. That should tell you something._

_Reason 3: The legacy of Godric Gryffindor is a sword. Historically speaking, a brain has never been a vital component required for the act of hacking at people with a pointy object._

_Reason 4: Gryffindors have been chosen for their 'daring', i.e. disregard of life and limb. This has been said at every Sorting Song since Hogwarts was built. You are surprised that they adhere to this stereotype, why exactly? _

_Reason 5: _Gryffindors.

_Reason 6: Charge first, ask questions later has been their motto for a thousand years; Families run in Houses, it's been bred into them._

_Reaso--_

"Well?" Minerva demanded, and Snape realised she'd asked something and he had no idea what it was she'd said. He tried not to look mystified. "What shall we do?" she repeated impatiently after a moment.

"Ah," Snape said. "Well, once you've driven them off, don't worry about it further. If they go for the Stone tonight I'll deal with them."

She stared. "That… is not the most… _comforting _of statements, Severus."

"…I won't ask 'don't you trust me'…"

How best to persuade her that letting him deal with it was the right thing to do… "Rest assured Minerva, that Dumbledore has written it into my contract that I cannot do any irreparable damage to Gryffindor students; otherwise I will suffer horrors beyond the imagining of anyone but a sugar-dosed loon. Does this adequately sooth your doubts?"

"…why has no one ever mentioned this before?"

Snape shrugged. "I like seeing what the rest of you think I'm capable of. The suggestions Filius gives are frequently more inventive than what I had planned."

"…Severus, you terrible, cunning, nasty man."

"Such _compliments_, Minerva." Now, for ten galleons, did he dare…? "Are we dating now?"

Proof, if any were needed, that Gryffindor courage did indeed come from bottles labelled firewhiskey.

Snape was rewarded with the rarest sight in Hogwarts: Minerva McGonagall sputtering. Yes… Flitwick owed him ten galleons. Poppy too, now that he thought about it. Which he did, as he was heading towards the Hospital Wing at a dead run, hoping to at least be near medical help when Minerva finally recovered from her shock and started after him with wand in hand.

"Explosion in the dungeons!" shrieked a second year Hufflepuff as he ran past, which resulted in him quickly gaining an entourage of screaming students. Clearly the only reason Snape would ever abandon his trademark glide would be when in serious danger from volatile potions ingredients mixed with inept students. Generally speaking it was a correct assumption, and under normal circumstances that did not involve Minerva McGonagall, they could have expected the destruction of the lower level classrooms in ten minutes. Instead, Snape ran into a passage hidden behind a wall hanging, pausing momentarily only to savour the sound of students running into a stone wall.

Such a beautiful, distracting sound. Ah, the stupidity of students. He could almost forget he was in serious danger of death.

Talking of serious danger, he needed to prepare for tonight. And make sure McGonagall didn't find him first, because – as the Dark Lord had constantly proven – remove someone's arms and they were no longer a threat. They were instead a mildly nauseating form of entertainment, whether that was their attempts to get away or by the startled and incredibly pained screams and curses they frequently gave. And if they fainted from shock, a short sharp Cruciatus usually woke them up.

…McGonagall was a mistress of transfiguration and torture. It was more likely that his demise would involve the removal of several vital organs, diabolical use of Switching spells and tickling charms, and quite possibly haggis. Or Worse (because Snape, like every student ever to have been taught by Minerva McGonagall, accepted the fact that she was scarier than any Minister of Magic in the past two hundred years and put nothing beyond her). As a teacher, he knew even better not to doubt this.

This called for the use of all his hard and painfully earned knowledge of where the very best hiding places in Hogwarts were (when you were a favourite target of marauding Gryffindors, it was a matter of do or die, quite frankly. Once or twice, 'die' was a very strong possibility).

He had about seven hours after all, before he absolutely had to interfere and prevent Dunce Who Lived's untimely death. He could stay hidden for seven hours. McGonagall knew better than to kill him _before_ the Dunce was saved. How hard could it possibly be to avoid a sixty-year old witch…?

"Mrowr."

Snape didn't bother turning. He simply ran. If it was Mrs Norris, he could pay her back for the indignity later. If it was Minerva, well, 'duck and cover' _was _one of the first things you learned upon entering Hogwarts.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry Potter prided himself on his intellect. His ability to remain unseen and unsuspected were also vital components, but mostly, it was the fact that he was, unlike most inhabitants of the wizarding world of any age, capable of rational thought.

That he should be sneaking through the corridors after dark, trying to avoid Peeves, Filch and Mrs Norris, would seem to make a mockery of this pride.

Harry Potter suspected his teacher of not being completely honest. Actually, he didn't suspect him of this, he knew it.

It probably violated a law of nature or at least Wizarding society, but he really did enjoy Snape's company. If he were more trusting and/or forgiving he might consider Snape a father figure. Fortunately, Snape took great care to never let him become truly comfortable in his presence, and had in fact been quite insistent that Harry never fall into the trap of putting emotions above sense. He liked Snape, but_ trust no one_ was Snape's motto and Harry reasoned that he was still alive and spying, that must mean Snape was doing something right. After all, if his parents had been home that Halloween night ten years ago, they'd be dead. Whereas Snape, the same age and in a situation of constant danger where the slightest mistake could kill him, would still be alive.

So he knew Snape was not being honest with him. He had it from the horse's mouth, as it were. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest – he was a child, after all, and well used to adults trying to hide things from him for the greater good (his or theirs he had yet to discover) but Snape had been uncommonly straightforward with him and the sudden reversal upset Harry more than he liked to admit. And this – something – whatever it was, involved him. Or his brother. But definitely Voldemort.

You couldn't grow up in an irredeemably Gryffindor home without picking up a few unsavoury habits – namely, curiosity of the 'cat-killer' variety.

Harry took a deep breath, and stepped through the door to the third floor.

Snape was going to kill him.

Harry only hoped he got his brother first, so that at least he could go to his death happy.

* * *

Severus Snape had a bastard relationship twice-removed with heroism. That suited him just fine. Today was going to be one of those days he was closer to heroism than he liked.

Did he need backup? Did he need McGonagall? The answer to that question, he decided, depended not on the level of danger he was likely to face but more on whether or not she was still angry with him.

He had been pretty thoroughly tortured for his earlier mistake already, but Minerva McGonagall knew how to hold grudges. Honestly, you miss one Heads of House meeting and they hold it against you for the rest of your life…

But it was her students in serious danger. As ever. He, as a Slytherin, should not even be contemplating flying to the rescue for any but his own serpents, and even then he would have weighed up the advantages and disadvantages to a death on the school grounds first.

Unfortunately, one of his students _was_ missing. He had no excuse. "Minerva," he fire-called, "please check your common room and dorms. We may have a problem."

"I cannot believe you dare to ask me anything," came the clearly irritated reply, but the fact that she then swept out of the room intent on doing justice to no-gooders out of bed relieved him somewhat. Differences had been put aside for the common goal of making sure there were no corpses to clean up in the morning.

"Blast them," she muttered furiously when she stormed back in. "I've just un-petrified Longbottom," she declared. "He claims Potter, Granger and Weasley tried to sneak out earlier and were forced to Petrify him to prevent him bringing the news to me."

"I don't suppose now would be a good time to say 'I told you so.'" Snape muttered.

"No," Minerva said coolly. "Particularly as you said you would deal with it."

"I was preoccupied with Peeves," Snape protested, "Who seemed to think the Bloody Baron had given him the right to visit chaos in every area of the school save the third floor. That, and…" he took a deep breath. He so did not want to admit one of his students was in the same predicament. "One of my own students… isalsomissing." He said in a rush.

"What was that?" McGonagall said, a disbelieving smile spreading across her face.

"I _said_, one of my own students is… likely… on the third floor as well." Oh, the shame. The debilitating horror of it.

"Tsk, tsk, Severus, how disappointing for you. Such _recklessness_."

"Shut up," Snape retorted, before he remembered that he was deathly afraid of this woman – with good reason – and apologised. There was only one thing to be done. "…please," he said. "Minerva, I _need_ your assistance."

The smile on her face terrified him more than he cared to admit to. He'd seen _Voldemort_ be less frightening. "Should we call in Dumbledore?" she asked distractedly after a moment's consideration, clearly already planning how she was going to use this request against him.

"He's probably already on his way back," Snape pointed out. "You know he planned this from the start."

"Yes, but clearly I need the reminder," she said tightly. "Right, put some healing potions in unbreakable vials, we're heading to the third floor."

"Minerva McGonagall I am deeply indebted to you for this," Snape said. He did not sound pleased at the prospect.

"Severus Snape, you do indeed owe me big time," McGonagall said with a cool smile that sent shivers down his spine. "And I will see to it that the debt is paid in full."

* * *

Harry woke, groaning pathetically and blinking at the terrible whiteness of the hospital wing.

"I'm not even going to ask what you were thinking, because, quite clearly, you _weren't_ thinking."

He shifted his line of sight to the pillar of unrelenting blackness standing at his bedside, and wished briefly that he were still facing Voldemort.

"Would you like me to say 'I told you so'?" Snape demanded. "Merlin's beard, boy, what House do you belong to again?"

Harry mumbled. Snape's expression made it quite clear that the only reason Harry wasn't being shaken into answering was out of misplaced concern for his health and welfare. "Slytherin," Harry muttered hoarsely after a moment, eyes begging for mercy.

Snape had none. "I'm sorry," he said silkily, "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

"_Slytherin_." Harry rasped. "Slytherin. Slytherin!"

"That's right." Snape said. "So. What. The. Hell. Do you call your actions of three days ago?"

"Three – _days_?"

"The most blatant and horrific example of Gryffindorish behaviour ever committed by a member of my House is what I call it. Would you care to disagree?" Snape sneered. "Please, disagree," he coaxed, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"No," Harry whimpered. He had the feeling that trying to appeal to Snape's sense of pity was futile and the only thing likely to soften Snape's current fury with him would be to respond levelly and with the dignity befitting a Slytherin, but couldn't quite muster the strength necessary to pull himself together and stop acting like a kicked puppy. Everything hurt. Next time, he was definitely leaving his brother to Voldemort's tender mercies. In fact, he didn't know why he hadn't just done that this time.

"What did you think you were doing? What- Why-?" He cut himself off and took a deep breath. "_You are a Slytherin_," he said fiercely. "I have had far more evidence in favour of this than I have to refute it, although right now I am seriously beginning to wonder. Slytherins, unlike Gryffindors, do not involve themselves with such foolish displays of recklessness. They know that teachers are here for a reason. They do not risk their lives for strangers with no hope of compensation. They do not risk their lives for _anyone_ with no hope of reward or recognition. They do not get involved in situations where they might be killed before reaching puberty. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Harry said, and struggled to sit up. Equilibrium was needed. Recovery of poise was needed. Snape to stop being angry for him was most definitely needed.

"You should have come to me." Snape said coldly, with absolutely no outward indication of being aware of how ridiculous that declaration sounded.

"Yes sir," Harry said, mustering enough sense to sound contrite. The feeble attempt brought a quick grin of amusement to Snape's face.

"Your brother, in case you were wondering – which I sincerely doubt – left here yesterday. You have not only cost us points you've also lost your bet."

Harry considered just smothering himself with his pillow and getting it over with.

"According to Dumbledore, your brother bravely and selflessly—" Harry had no idea how Snape managed to make 'bravely' and 'selflessly' sound like crimes worthy of good old fashioned hanging, "—defended you and the Stone from Voldemort. The fact that it was in your pocket doesn't seem to make him doubt this version of events overmuch, nor does the fact that you are the one suffering magical exhaustion."

Harry made a disgusted noise.

"No, it's not fair." Snape agreed. "It never is. But at the very least we still have the Cup."

Harry swallowed hard on the feeling of unease. "Quirrel had Voldemort in the back of his head," he said instead.

Snape stared at him. His face twisted into an uncomfortable expression as he clearly struggled to imagine it, before he made a small noise of disgust and discarded the attempt. "I was aware of Voldemort's presence," he noted instead. "Your brother has already given his version of events. Did the Dark Lord know who you were?" he asked.

"He recognised my brother and me," Harry said after a moment.

"Now is not the time to be obtuse," Snape snapped, "Did he know _you_ were the one who reduced him to such a state he had to possess Quirrel?"

Harry did what a Slytherin should never do in conversation. "Um." He said, and quickly realised his mistake, staring at the gathering thunder in Snape's expression. "I don't… think so?"

"You don't… 'think so?'" Snape repeated. "You don't _think so_? Merlin's Beard, Wand and Bloody Grey Cloak!"

"It was dark," Harry offered. "And I think he can only see in shades of red so maybe…" he trailed off.

"The Dark Lord," Snape said, with terrible calm, "is a master of Dark Arts, whatever his non-existent mental state might be. Are you trying to tell me he won't recognise a curse scar like yours? That he won't recognise his own magical signature on your _forehead_?"

"Well, you did say he was crazy," Harry pointed out.

Snape sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's do this another way," he managed after a moment's silence. "Who did he pay the most attention to? Which one of you did he focus his expositional dialogue on?"

"Me. But that might have been because I got there late…"

Snape waited.

Harry took a deep breath and attempted to set things in a more logical and informative order. "Once I was there he did seem a little more focussed on me, but that might have been because he spotted the Slytherin badge. Said he couldn't talk to Gryffindors, they just didn't have the requisite brainpower or ability to concentrate."

"True," Snape murmured. "Too true. But did he say anything about his defeat? When he spoke about it, which one of you did he promise suffering to?"

"Both of us," Harry said.

"Oh for--" Snape swore. At length, with great fluency and style. "That's it." He said flatly. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again. _Ever_."

Harry stared.

Snape glared back at him.

"May I suggest a compromise?" Harry said after a moment.

"Go ahead," Snape said. "It had better involve the solemn promise on your part to never, ever do such a stupid thing again."

"I'm perfectly willing to promise that. It was Gryffindor conditioning, that's all."

"That doesn't make me feel any better. Every summer my hard work is going to be undone."

"Then perhaps you should create some reason to remove me from such damaging surroundings." Harry pointed out innocently.

Snape stared. "You clever little bastard, you've just gone right back up in my esteem."

"I wasn't aware I was held in such high regard in the first place," Harry grinned. "If I'd known that I'd have done more damage in Charms."

Snape shook his head with something that was not quite admiration and not quite exasperation either. "Do try and argue your way past Madam Pomfrey in time for the End of Year Feast, I wouldn't want you to miss Slytherin's eighth year of winning the House Cup. McGonagall's expressions are to die for."

* * *

It was intolerable. Snape stared at Dumbledore, beaming ridiculously brightly after handing out points to all and sundry involved in the terrible Quirrel incident (all and sundry meaning only the Gryffindor students involved, naturally).

Fifty points to Granger for doing her best to keep her dunderheaded companions alive? That was to be expected! She'd taken on the role the moment she had the misfortune to befriend them!

And another fifty points to Weasley for a chess game? A chess game where his success was measured by the fact that the smart one didn't end up with her brains decorating the board?

And Dunce! Who should have died, who would have died if not for timely intervention on several parts. Sixty Morgana cursed points!

The only points he agreed with Dumbledore on were the ten to _Longbottom_ for having the common sense to try and prevent students wandering off to kill themselves.

"You… absolute… _bastard_." Snape said. Actually, there were several versatile and increasingly imaginative descriptions of varying depravity between 'absolute' and 'bastard', but that was the general idea.

"Sorry, dear boy," Dumbledore said serenely, cupping his ear. "Going a trifle deaf in my left ear, you understand."

Snape took a deep breath and willed his sanity to cling on. "You…" he struggled and bit his lip more than three times before he could continue. "Was it _absolutely necessary_ for you to complete humiliate us?" he said bitterly. "Was it impossible for you to give Potter and his cronies their gratuitous points _before_ the feast?"

"Da-dee-dum-da…" Dumbledore hummed pleasantly. "Sorry, what was that?"

"No, you _had_ to give them all their points at the feast so the entire school could witness your blatant favouritism and our utter humiliation," Snape snarled, hands so tightly clenched he found himself completely unsurprised by the tablecloth's sudden bloodstain.

"Poppy," Pomona said brightly, "The table's bleeding,"

"Doesn't all that red and gold brighten up the Hall splendidly?" Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Snape sat very still and planned murder.

On his left, McGonagall made a small noise uncommonly like a cat's yowl of aggravation. "It's no fun if it's just handed over," she said irritably. "Damn it, Albus! Keep pulling deus ex machina like this and I'll never get any work out of them!"

…crucifixion? Hanging by beard? Bludgeoning spell? Did he own a shotgun?

He looked over at his house table, filled with faces frozen in various states of fury, disbelief, horror, and resignation. Seven was a good number in the magical world. Powerful. But he'd much rather they'd had an eighth year. It was only deserved, it was only right.

Potter raised an eyebrow with a certain stare that promised to make the life of his brother as uncomfortable over the holidays as could be managed without risk of being cast out of the family home. Snape swung his gaze back over to the Gryffindor table, still celebrating Slytherin's humiliation and downfall. You'd think it was something personal.

It was a momentary setback, he assured himself. There was next year, as always. There was no need to feel like slaughtering the entire contingent of lion-badge wearing idiots, just because Dumbledore had pulled a stunt of great thoughtless cruelty. (Actually, was he so sure it _was_ thoughtless cruelty? This was _Dumbledore_ he was talking about.)

His students would know at least that the only reason such a travesty had occurred was by Dumbledore's whim. (And if Dumbledore did it just to make Dunce happy, Snape needed to have strong words with him regarding his oft-repeated statement 'it's the taking part that counts' and why he thought he was exempt.) They would be comforted by the notion that the Cup was rightfully theirs and had been stolen by crass and audacious means.

Oh, who was he trying to kid, if it weren't for the fact they were leaving the school in a few hours they'd already be hard at work making Gryffindor existence intolerable. Instead, they had all summer to come up with plans of horrific (and potentially criminal) scope.

He was not looking forward to next year. He never did (he was a teacher, it went against everything he stood and hoped for – namely, the utter destruction of the years between eleven and eighteen) but… he was going to have to work overtime to make sure there were no criminal charges brought against any of his students.

Next year was going to be awful. Snape contemplated talking it over with Pomona and arranging to spend it in a special plant induced haze. But no, he had to make Gryffindor sincerely regret their fraudulent acquisition of the House Cup, and he couldn't do that if he was convinced the walls were talking to him.

He had to plan. He had to acquire some dubious potions ingredients. … and he also had to make sure there were no Dark Lord Plot™ that could give Dumbledore reason to repeat this monstrous performance of discrimination.

Next year, Voldemort was going to be coming to him for tips.


End file.
